On Saturday they drove out to a nearby historical botanic garden and library, because the library had an exhibition centered around luxury textiles, wallpapers, and sketches from the nineteenth century, primarily William Morris-related. Wes, a medievalist and a fabric and textile and sumptuary laws expert, had a lot of thoughts about the Victorian mania for the Middle Ages.

He also liked rose gardens and history, and this particular venue could be used for weddings -- or, just possibly, proposals -- full of spectacular views and billowing flowers. He watched Finn’s smile; watched his boyfriend fall in love with a huge pink-yellow fluffy bloom, leaning in for a scented breath or two, making friends.

Good, he thought. Excellent. Beautiful.

He had not brought the ring, not today, testing the location. He had not practiced his speech. But he wished he had, as Finn wandered through a lacy white gazebo, framed by climbing color, glowing and golden like the reflection of the sun. Even Finn’s scuffed jeans and local surf-shop hoodie fit right in somehow. He’d also made friends with a librarian, chatting about the job and the exhibit while Wes found a person in charge in order to explain, very patiently, that the title of the medieval romance referenced in one of their informational displays was spelled incorrectly.

Finn had also, Wes had learned while they’d wandered back out to the gardens, given the library a sizeable donation on the spot. Because, he’d said, he’d been having so much fun talking to Irina about her curatorial duties and the need for archival preservation and community outreach funding, and of course that was important, and he wanted to help.

That was Finn Ransom. Wes adored him.

Finn turned, an artwork under winsome October sun, surrounded by flowers. He did have the usual sturdy cane in one hand; he wasn’t leaning on it much, but the path was dirt, and uneven. Wes thought for a split second about walking, stone steps, potential peril; and then he thought, no, Finn was fine, Finn was smiling, Finn was bouncing across dirt and pebbles to grab his hand and kiss him and say, “Did you see those giant purple sunset ones, I didn’t know roses came in that color, I love them!”

Wes let himself be tugged that direction. “They’re ... definitely purple.” They were. He wasn’t quite rethinking a plan, not yet. “You love them?”

“I so do. Do you think we can grow roses? I could learn to grow roses.”

“Where? You already planted the strawberry beds, and the zucchini, and the herb garden --”

“You like my herb garden. You like my wild mint. It was ... mint to be.”

“No.”

“Not the right, um, thyme for that joke?”

“If you say anything about parsley I’ll leave you in a rose garden.”

“Oh, Wes.”

“What?”

“You,” Finn said, expression angelic, “made a pun about leaves.”

“Oh my God,” Wes said, and then, because he couldn’t help it, because Finn’s eyes were so blue and sparkling, “I love you, come here, if I kiss you will you stop?”

Finn was laughing while being kissed. Finn Ransom laughing, in sunlight, drenched in roses, was the best thing Wes had ever touched, tasted, felt. He drank in the laughter, the tease of Finn’s tongue against his, the light: ensorcelled.

A noise made him reluctantly stop kissing Finn, and turn.

A photographer. Professional. Setting up equipment. And a beaming young couple in matching casual suits, holding hands. The photographer was rhapsodizing, “These will be such gorgeous engagement shots, I adore this location, it’s such a romantic spot, Rob, Jayden, I love it!”

“Well,” Finn said solemnly, eyes dancing, “we should maybe move, and let them have their photo shoot?”

“Um. Yeah.” And now he couldn’t use this garden. More accurately, he could, but it’d feel unoriginal. Someone else’s story, someone else’s spot. Especially if he asked soon. As per his plans. All three potential options.

Either Rob or Jayden looked their way. Then whispered excitedly to his partner. Then they both turned and stared at Finn.

Wes sighed. “I think you’ve got fans.”

Finn, being Finn, waved.