The damp October air had a bite to it, seeping through the kitchen window above the sink. Maya dried a ceramic mug, its warmth a small comfort against her chilled fingers. Outside, the last of the maple leaves clung to the branches, a few brilliant reds and oranges refusing to let go.

“So,” she said, placing the mug in the cupboard and turning to face the living room. “Ten years. What’s the plan?”

Liam was on the couch, laptop open, but his eyes were on her. He closed the computer with a soft click. “I was thinking about that. We could do the whole ‘fancy dinner’ thing. Get a reservation somewhere we can’t afford, you wear that blue dress…”

Maya leaned against the counter, a small smile playing on her lips. “Tempting. But we did that for your thirtieth. It was lovely, but it felt… performed.”

“I know what you mean,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “So, what’s the opposite of performed?”

She walked over and sat beside him, tucking her feet up onto the cushion. “What about where we had our first real date? That little taco truck on South Congress, the one with the terrible plastic tables? We could get tacos, walk by the water, maybe get a drink at that dive bar with the sticky floors.”

Liam grinned, the tension leaving his shoulders. “The one where you beat me at darts and I pretended to be upset?”

“You were upset,” she corrected, nudging him with her knee. “You’re a terrible loser.”

He laughed, a genuine, warm sound that filled the room. “Okay, you’re right. That sounds… perfect, actually. Us. Not some stuffy restaurant.” He reached for her hand, his thumb tracing a slow circle on her palm. “Tacos it is. But I’m not letting you win at darts this time.”

Maya squeezed his hand. “We’ll see about that.” The decision, simple and true, felt more significant than any grand gesture. It was a quiet acknowledgment that after a decade, the best way to celebrate was to simply be themselves, together.


The unseasonably warm October afternoon had faded into a crisp evening, and the last of the sun’s light was draining from the kitchen window. Maya stood at the counter, tearing lettuce with more force than necessary. A small, velvet box sat in the center of the table between two unopened bottles of wine, one red, one white.

“We could just go to that place on the river,” she said, not looking up. “The one with the good bread.”

From the living room, where he was pretending to organize the bookshelf, Daniel made a noncommittal sound. “It’ll be packed on a Saturday.”

“It’s our anniversary. It’s supposed to be packed.”

He appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame. “Is it, though? The anniversary of the day we signed a mortgage? That’s not exactly a candlelit dinner story. It’s a story about arguing over escrow.”

Maya finally turned, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “It’s the day we committed to building something. That’s more real than a first date.”

“I’m not saying it isn’t real. I’m saying maybe we should mark it in a way that feels like us, not like a Hallmark card.” He walked over and picked up the velvet box, turning it over in his hands. “What if we just… stayed in? I’ll make the short ribs. We can open that bottle of Burgundy we’ve been saving. No reservations, no traffic.”

She sighed, but the tension in her shoulders eased. “You’ll spend the whole day in the kitchen.”

“And you’ll sit at the counter with a glass of wine, telling me I’m browning the meat wrong. It’s tradition.”

A small smile broke through. “It’s not a tradition. It’s our third year.”

“Then we’re due to start one.” He opened the box, revealing a simple keychain—a small, brass house with both their initials engraved on the door. “I was going to give you this at the restaurant. But this felt more honest.”

Maya took it, her thumb tracing the tiny roof. “Staying in,” she said softly. “Okay. But I’m picking the music.”

“Deal.” He kissed the top of her head. “Happy house-iversary.”


The cardboard box sat between them on the kitchen table, its flaps open like a tired bird. Inside, a jumble of photographs, ticket stubs, and a single, slightly squashed cork from a bottle of cheap champagne. Five years.

“We could do the tasting menu at that new place downtown,” Sarah said, nudging a photo of them at a music festival, both covered in dust. “The one with the garden patio. It’s supposed to be incredible.”

Mark leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. “It’s also supposed to be two hundred dollars a head before drinks.” He gestured vaguely toward the living room, where a stack of paint swatches leaned against the wall. “I was thinking we put that toward the porch. The wood’s starting to get soft in one corner.”

Sarah sighed, not with anger, but with the weight of logistics. “I know. But it’s five years, Mark. We haven’t done anything that felt… significant in a while. Not since before the pandemic.”

“Replacing the porch is significant,” he countered, but his voice was gentle. He reached into the box and pulled out a small, smooth stone. “Remember this? From that beach in Oregon where it rained the entire time.”

She smiled faintly. “We sat in the car and ate gas station sandwiches. It was perfect.”

“Exactly.” He rolled the stone in his palm. “We don’t need a fancy dinner to prove something. We’re not celebrating a wedding. We’re celebrating *us*. How we’ve managed to build this life without a rulebook.”

Sarah looked at him, at the familiar lines around his eyes. He was right. The anniversary wasn’t about a performance; it was about the quiet, stubborn fact of their shared life. The leaky faucet they’d fixed together, the Sunday crossword battles, the silent comfort of reading in the same room.

“Okay,” she said. “So, not the tasting menu.” She paused, an idea forming. “How about this: we rent a power washer. We clean the porch, we order from that taco truck we love, and we drink that bottle of wine we’ve been saving for no reason. Then, we sit on our newly cleaned porch and watch the neighborhood.”

Mark’s face broke into a wide grin. “Now that sounds like an anniversary.” He put the stone back in the box and closed the flaps. “Tacos, power tools, and you. I’m in.”


The argument, if it could be called that, began over the last clean coffee mug.

“Ten years, Maya,” Daniel said, handing her the mug and reaching for a slightly stained one for himself. “Ten years since you tripped over my laptop cord at that terrible coffee shop. We can’t just order a pizza.”

Maya poured the last of the coffee, her gaze drifting to the window where a fine April rain was beading on the glass. “I’m not saying pizza. I’m saying we shouldn’t force it. A dinner reservation feels too… performative. Like we’re celebrating a corporate merger, not us.” She leaned against the counter, the warmth of the mug seeping into her palms. “What about that hike we did in year three? The one where we got lost and ate gas station peanuts for lunch?”

Daniel smiled, remembering the dusty trail and her laughter when he’d admitted he’d read the map upside down. “That was a good day. But we’re not twenty-five anymore. My knees have opinions now.” He moved closer, resting his hands on her shoulders. “What if we did something small, but meaningful? We could finally print those photos from the trip to Portugal. The ones just sitting on the cloud. We could put them in that album your mom got us.”

Maya considered this. The photos were a running joke between them—a monument to their procrastination. “An album,” she repeated, the idea settling in. It felt right. It was an act of building, not just observing. “What if we made it a whole day? We make that ridiculously complicated paella we tried once, the one that took four hours. We can listen to that old playlist from when we first moved in.”

A genuine smile broke across Daniel’s face. “The one with all that terrible indie folk?”

“The very same.”

He pulled her into a hug, kissing the top of her head. “It’s a plan. A messy, time-consuming, perfect plan.”

Maya leaned into him, the tension of the morning dissolving. It wasn't about the grand gesture. It was about deciding, together, to spend the day building something new from the well-worn materials of their life. It was, she thought, the most honest way to mark a decade of choosing each other, one ordinary, extraordinary day at a time.


The September light was fading into a soft amber glow over the porch where Lena and Marcus sat, a half-empty bottle of wine on the table between them. Their ten-year anniversary was in three weeks, and the question of how to mark it had become a quiet, persistent hum in the back of their daily conversations.

“I was looking at that cabin again,” Marcus said, his thumb absently tracing the rim of his glass. “The one near Shenandoah. They have a wood-burning stove and no Wi-Fi.”

Lena pulled her cardigan tighter, a small smile on her face. “You want to unplug. I know. You say it every year.”

“Because every year we end up doing something practical,” he countered, his tone gentle, not accusatory. “Last year we bought a new water heater for the anniversary.”

She laughed, the sound low and warm. “That was a group decision, and you know it. The old one was about to flood the basement.” She took a sip of wine, considering. “But maybe you’re right. Ten years isn’t a water heater. It’s… bigger.”

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “I’m not saying we need a big party or some grand gesture. I just don’t want it to feel like any other weekend. I want to look back and know we did something that was just for us.”

Lena was quiet for a moment, watching a neighbor walk their dog. “What about the opposite of a cabin?” she asked. “No silence. A city we’ve never been to. A tiny hotel room, a great dinner, a show we’d never buy tickets for. We could be tourists.”

Marcus considered this, a slow grin spreading across his face. “I could be persuaded by a tiny hotel room. And a show.” He reached across the table, his hand finding hers. “We’re good at this, you know. The deciding.”

She turned her hand over, lacing her fingers with his. “We’ve had practice. Ten years of it.” The decision wasn’t made yet, but it was forming between them, a shape they were building together in the cooling evening air.


The afternoon light slanted through the kitchen window, catching the dust motes dancing above the cutting board. Maya scraped a pile of diced onions into a pan, the sizzle a familiar, domestic soundtrack. Across the counter, Leo was hunched over his laptop, a spreadsheet glowing on the screen.

“We need to figure out Saturday,” she said, not looking up.

Leo grunted, still staring at the numbers. “The tenth, right? Six years.”

“Six years,” she confirmed, the words feeling heavier than they should. The sizzle filled the silence for a moment. “So… what do you want to do? We could try that new tapas place downtown. Or maybe just get a really good bottle of wine and cook the steaks we’ve been saving.”

He finally looked up, his brow furrowed. “We did the fancy dinner last year. And the year before that, remember? The place with the terrible acoustics where we had to shout about our feelings.”

Maya smiled faintly at the memory. “True.” She stirred the onions, their sharp scent softening. “What about a weekend trip? Just a night, maybe to that B&B near the coast we always talk about.”

Leo leaned back, running a hand through his hair. “That’s a lot of driving for one night. And we’re trying to be better about saving. The roof fund is looking a little anemic.”

She nodded. He was right, of course. The house, with its leaky gutters and creaky porch, was their shared, tangible commitment. It was the reason their anniversary plans were often tempered by practicalities.

“I know,” she said. “It’s just… six years feels significant. More than a card and a quick dinner.”

“It is significant,” he agreed, closing his laptop. He walked over and stood behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders. “It’s six years of this,” he said, gesturing with his chin to the half-prepped dinner, the mail piled on the counter, the dog snoring in the next room. “We could just… celebrate the house. The life we’ve built in it.”

He turned her around gently. “Let’s spend the day working on the garden. The one we’ve been planning since spring. We can go to the nursery, buy the perennials, and finally get them in the ground. We’ll order a pizza, drink a decent beer, and look at what we made. Together.”

Maya considered it, the image forming in her mind: their hands in the dirt, the smell of tomato plants, the quiet satisfaction of a shared project completed. It wasn’t a grand gesture, but it was a testament. A symbol of putting down roots, literally.

“Okay,” she said, a real smile finally breaking through. “I like that. But we’re getting the good pizza. The one with the prosciutto and figs.”


The September light was fading into a soft amber glow across the kitchen counter as Daniel chopped cilantro. Across from him, Maya was scrolling through her phone, a faint furrow in her brow.

“Okay,” she said, setting the phone down. “We have options. There’s that new tapas place downtown, or we could drive up the coast for the weekend. Or, and hear me out, we could finally try that ridiculous hot pot kit your sister got us.”

Daniel scraped the cilantro into a bowl. “For our five-year anniversary? I think we can aim a little higher than a dusty box in the pantry.” He wiped his hands on a towel. “The coast sounds good. Get out of the city, breathe some real air.”

Maya leaned back in her chair. “It does. But we just got back from visiting my parents. I’m kind of tired of being in a car.” She looked at him, her expression softening. “I just want to be here. With you. Not rushing anywhere.”

Daniel leaned against the counter, considering this. Five years living together. It was a milestone, one that felt both monumental and strangely ordinary. The first year had been a blur of discovering each other’s annoying habits. The third, a tense negotiation of finances and future plans. Now, in the fifth, there was a quiet ease.

“So, no tapas, no coast,” he said, a slow smile forming. “What does ‘just being here’ look like to you?”

Maya stood and walked over to him, wrapping her arms around his waist. “I was thinking we could make that pasta from scratch. The one that takes all afternoon. We can open that bottle of wine we’ve been saving, put on some music that isn’t a podcast, and just… talk. Or not talk.” She shrugged. “Just be us, on purpose.”

He kissed the top of her head. “That sounds perfect.” He glanced over at the pile of mail on the counter, the unread books on the shelf. “We can turn our phones off. Pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist for one night.”

“Deal,” she whispered, pulling him closer. It wasn’t about the grand gesture, they both realized. It was about choosing, again, the quiet life they had built within these walls.


The first real chill of autumn pressed against the kitchen windows as Lena poured two glasses of wine. Outside, the maple in their front yard was just beginning to turn, a few red leaves clinging to the damp sidewalk. It had been five years since she’d moved her boxes into Mark’s small bungalow, and the date on the calendar felt heavier than the ones before it.

Mark came in from the garage, wiping his hands on a rag. He leaned against the counter, watching her. “So,” he said, a familiar, hesitant note in his voice. “Five years. That’s a big one.”

“It is,” she agreed, sliding a glass toward him. “I was thinking about that trip we took to the coast. The first year. Remember how the hotel lost our reservation and we ended up in that tiny room with the broken heater?”

He smiled, the lines around his eyes deepening. “And you made me go buy that ridiculous space heater from the drugstore. We sat in front of it like it was a campfire.” He took a sip of wine. “We could do something like that again. A weekend away. Maybe up to the mountains.”

Lena traced the rim of her glass. “We could. But I was also thinking… maybe we should do something for the house. Something that lasts.” She looked around the kitchen, at the scuffed floor and the window trim that needed a fresh coat of paint. “We’ve been talking about redoing the backyard for two years. A fire pit, some proper chairs. We could spend the weekend doing that instead.”

Mark was quiet for a moment, considering. He wasn’t a man who rushed into decisions. “A trip is an escape,” he said finally. “But the fire pit… that’s an investment. In us. In the next five years.” He nodded slowly, a genuine smile breaking through. “I like that. Let’s do it. We can go to the lumber yard Saturday morning.”

Lena smiled back, the tension in her shoulders easing. “It’s a plan.” They clinked their glasses softly, the sound a quiet promise for the future.


The morning of their fifth anniversary, Lena found Marcus in the kitchen, frowning at the espresso machine as if it had personally insulted him. A stack of unopened mail sat between a half-dead basil plant and a coffee mug that read “World’s Okayest Golfer,” a gift from her father.

“I was thinking,” Marcus said without turning around, “we could do that tasting menu at The Hollow. The one with the smoked carrots.” He pulled the shot, the machine groaning. “Or we could finally drive up to that cabin near the Delaware Water Gap. No Wi-Fi, just a fireplace and a deck.”

Lena leaned against the counter, tucking her cold hands into the sleeves of her sweatshirt. It was his, from a college 5K he never ran. “We said we’d save that cabin for when we have a dog. Remember? You wanted to see a dog experience its first deer.”

“Right.” He handed her a small cup of espresso. “So, the restaurant.”

She took a sip, the bitterness sharp on her tongue. Outside, a neighbor’s sprinkler ticked against their fence. Five years living together. They had celebrated the first anniversary with a frantic road trip to a music festival, the second with a power outage and a box of melting ice cream. This year felt different, heavier. Not bad, just… settled.

“What if,” she said, setting the cup down, “we don’t go anywhere? What if we finally build that raised bed in the backyard? The one we bought lumber for in April.”

Marcus turned, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “That’s your anniversary wish? Manual labor?”

“It’s our house,” she said, gesturing vaguely at the walls, the scuffed floorboards, the quiet hum of the refrigerator. “We’ve spent five years making it ours. Seems right to put something in the ground that’ll outlast a dinner reservation.”

He considered this, his head tilted. Then he smiled, the same slow, unguarded smile he’d given her the night they’d first kissed in a crowded bar. “We’d need more topsoil. And lunch. I’m not building anything on an empty stomach.”

Lena nodded, already reaching for her keys. “I’ll drive. You can pick the radio station.” It wasn’t a grand gesture, but it was theirs.


The September air had a bite to it as Maya poured two mugs of coffee, the steam rising in the quiet kitchen. Across the room, Ben was scrolling on his phone, a slight frown on his face.

“Okay,” he said, setting the phone down. “We need to figure out Saturday. Ten years is a big one.”

Maya slid a mug toward him. “It is. So, what are you thinking? Fancy dinner? We could finally try that place downtown, the one with the tasting menu.”

Ben took a sip of his coffee, considering it. “We could. But it feels… I don’t know, expected? We do a nice dinner for our birthdays every year.” He looked around their living room, at the books stacked on the coffee table and the worn rug they’d bought at a flea market. “Ten years of living together, of this… maybe we should mark it with something more permanent.”

Maya leaned against the counter, intrigued. “Permanent? Like a piece of art? We’ve been talking about filling that empty wall for ages.”

He nodded, a smile starting to form. “Exactly. Not just a meal we’ll forget in a week. Let’s go to that gallery in the arts district, the one with all the local woodwork and paintings. We can spend the afternoon just wandering, finding something we both love. Something that will be here, in our home, for the next ten years.”

A warmth spread through Maya that had nothing to do with the coffee. It was so like Ben to think of the future, of the tangible proof of their shared history. She thought of the first print they’d bought together, a cheap poster in college, and how it had moved with them from apartment to apartment.

“I love that,” she said, her voice soft. “But we are not spending the whole day being responsible and cultured. We’re getting tacos from that truck on 5th after. The one with the ridiculously hot salsa.”

Ben laughed, the sound filling the kitchen. “Deal. Art first, then we risk our stomachs. It’s the perfect representation of us, really.”

Maya grinned, raising her mug. “To ten years of questionable decisions and beautiful things.” He clinked his mug against hers. The plan was set, and it felt exactly right.


The September light was fading early now, the kitchen window above the sink framing the last of the orange leaves on the maple tree. Maya was at the counter, slicing limes, the sharp citrus scent cutting through the lingering smell of the onions from dinner. Ben leaned against the doorframe, a dish towel slung over his shoulder.

“So,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Ten years.”

Maya didn’t look up from the cutting board. “Ten years,” she echoed, the words feeling heavier than the number. “It feels like both a blink and a lifetime.”

He moved to stand beside her, his presence a familiar, solid warmth. “My parents are pushing for a dinner. They want to take us to that new steakhouse downtown. My dad’s already talking about the dry-aged ribeye.”

She finally met his eyes, a small smile playing on her lips. “And my sister texted me a list of ‘romantic getaway’ Airbnbs in the mountains. Hot tubs and fireplaces. Very… curated.”

Ben chuckled, taking a lime wedge and popping it into his mouth, wincing at the sourness. “We’re a popular commodity.” He paused, his expression turning thoughtful. “But what do *we* want to do?”

Maya set the knife down and wiped her hands on a towel. “Honestly? The thought of packing a bag and driving for three hours sounds exhausting. And a fancy dinner with our parents feels like a performance.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” he admitted, relief softening his features. “I don’t want to impress anyone. I just want to be with you.”

She leaned her hip against the counter, mirroring his posture. “Remember our first anniversary? We were broke. We got that cheap bottle of wine and a pizza from Gino’s and ate it on a blanket in the living room of our old apartment.”

“And the power went out,” Ben added, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “We lit every candle we owned.”

“It was perfect,” she said softly.

A comfortable silence settled between them. The hum of the refrigerator was the only sound.

“What if we just… do that again?” Ben suggested, his voice gentle. “Not the power outage. But the spirit of it. We order from Gino’s, we get a better bottle of wine this time, and we put our phones in the other room. We just talk. Like we used to.”

Maya’s smile widened, reaching her eyes. “No hot tubs?”

“No hot tubs,” he confirmed, taking her hand. “Just us. A decade in, and I still just want to hang out with you.”

She squeezed his hand. “That’s the best plan I’ve heard all week.”


The tenth anniversary of the day they’d met fell on a Tuesday, and the question of how to mark it hung in the air of their shared home like a low-pressure system. For weeks, they’d volleyed ideas, each one dissolving under the weight of practicality or conflicting desires.

“We could just do a really nice dinner,” Maya said, scrolling through restaurant reviews on her phone while sitting on the couch. She was still in her work blouse, the top button undone. “That new Italian place in the North End has a truffle risotto that’s supposed to be incredible.”

From the kitchen, where he was chopping onions for a quick stir-fry, Liam shook his head. “We do that for birthdays. It feels… perfunctory. Ten years is a big deal. We should do something that feels like *us*.”

Maya set her phone down. “Okay, what does ‘us’ feel like? Because my back hurts just thinking about that camping trip you suggested.”

Liam laughed, the sound soft. “The camping trip where we saw that meteor shower? That was a good night.” He scraped the onions into a hot pan, and they sizzled. “But you’re right, not for this. What about a weekend away? Somewhere quiet, a little cabin with a fireplace.”

“We’d spend half the time driving,” Maya countered, though not unkindly. “And we just painted the living room. I’d rather enjoy the house for a weekend than leave it.”

Silence settled between them, filled only by the rhythmic sound of Liam’s cooking. He stirred the vegetables, his back to her. “What if,” he began, his voice thoughtful, “we just… recreate it? The day we met.”

Maya tilted her head, a small smile forming. “The mediocre coffee shop and the terrible open mic?”

“Exactly,” he said, turning around with a grin. “We could go back to that cafe, get two of their burnt lattes, and then come home. We can order from our favorite Thai place, put on that playlist we made that first summer, and just… be here. In the life we built.” He paused. “Maybe we can finally hang that photo from the trip we took to the coast.”

Maya’s smile widened, reaching her eyes. She stood up and walked over to him, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind. “That sounds perfect.”


The late afternoon sun slanted through the kitchen window, illuminating a faint layer of dust on the cookbooks. Maya leaned against the counter, a dish towel over her shoulder, and looked at Leo, who was scrolling through his phone at the small wooden table.

“So,” she said, her voice cutting through the quiet hum of the refrigerator. “Ten years. What’s the plan?”

Leo looked up, his brow furrowed in concentration. “I was just looking. There’s that new omakase place downtown, but it’s booked solid for a month. And a weekend in the mountains sounds great, but I have that Monday morning call with the Chicago team.”

Maya nodded. The same logistical web they always faced. “I know. I’m not asking for a grand gesture. I just… want to mark it. Not let it slip by like a regular Thursday.”

He put his phone down, giving her his full attention. “You’re right. It’s a big one. A decade of you stealing the blankets and me leaving my coffee mugs everywhere.”

A small smile touched her lips. “A decade of us deciding to keep doing this. That’s the part that matters.”

Leo stood and walked over to her, taking the dish towel and tossing it onto the counter. He placed his hands on her arms. “Okay. What if we don’t try to compete with what we were supposed to do? What if we just do what we actually like?”

“I’m listening,” she said, tilting her head.

“We get takeout from that Italian place we loved in our first apartment. The one with the garlic knots that are basically just butter delivery systems. We open that bottle of wine we’ve been saving for a ‘special occasion’—I think this qualifies. And we finally watch that documentary about the national parks that we’ve been putting off.”

Maya considered it. It wasn’t exotic. It wasn’t a photo-worthy adventure. But it was them. It was the quiet, comfortable rhythm of their shared life, the one they’d built together, one ordinary decision at a time.

“And no phones after we open the wine,” she added.

“Deal,” he said, pulling her into a hug. “Happy almost-anniversary.”

She leaned into him, the warmth of his chest a familiar comfort. “Happy almost-anniversary.” It was perfect.


The September light through the kitchen window was thin and watery, a signal that summer was truly over. Maya leaned against the counter, scrolling through her phone. "Okay, so the standard gift for eight years is bronze or pottery," she announced. "Which feels… weirdly specific."

From the table, Daniel looked up from his laptop, a faint frown on his face. "Eight years? Are we sure it’s eight? We moved in together in the spring, but our first date was in October."

"Right, but our anniversary has always been the day we got the keys to this place," Maya said, gesturing with her mug at the room around them. "That’s when it became real. That’s the one we celebrate." She set the phone down. "But maybe we don't need a 'thing' this year. We could just do something."

Daniel closed his laptop, giving her his full attention. "Like what? A trip is out. We just spent a fortune on the new water heater." This was the unglamorous reality of their shared life: romance often had to be budgeted alongside home repairs.

"We could do that pottery class," Maya suggested. "Go make each other a lopsided mug. Very on-theme."

A small smile touched Daniel’s lips. "You hate getting your hands dirty. You’d spend the whole time complaining about the clay under your nails."

"True," she admitted. "But I’d be complaining with you." She came over to the table and sat down across from him. "What do you want to do? Really."

He thought for a moment, his eyes drifting to the window. "Honestly? I just want a day with you. No phones, no work. We could go for a long walk, get that overpriced brunch you love, and then come home and cook something complicated together. Maybe open that bottle of wine we’ve been saving." He looked back at her. "It’s not bronze, but it feels more… us."

Maya’s expression softened. The idea was simple, unassuming, and profoundly comforting. It was a celebration not of a grand event, but of the quiet, sturdy architecture of their partnership. "I like that," she said. "It’s a plan." The decision felt less about marking eight years and more about simply enjoying the life they had built, one quiet Sunday at a time.


The unseasonably warm October afternoon had faded into a cool evening, and the light over their kitchen table was soft. Liam was scrolling through his phone, a slight frown on his face, while Chloe leaned against the counter, nursing a mug of tea.

“Okay, I’ve looked at every ‘Top 10 Romantic Getaways’ list on the internet,” he said, setting the phone down. “And I’m more confused than when I started. Five years feels… significant. It should be more than just a nice dinner.”

“It is significant,” Chloe agreed, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “But maybe that’s the problem. We’re trying to force it into a box labeled ‘monumental occasion.’ Half the suggestions you just read were for proposals.”

Liam winced. “I saw that. A little presumptuous.” They had long ago agreed that marriage wasn’t a foregone conclusion for them, a decision that felt both liberating and, at moments like this, slightly uncharted.

“What did we do for our first anniversary?” Chloe asked.

“We were broke. We got that cheap bottle of wine and split a burrito from the place on the corner, then walked around the park.”

“And it was perfect,” she said with a soft smile. “Because it was just us. We didn’t have to prove anything.”

Liam stood and walked over to her, leaning against the adjacent counter. “So, what are you saying? We should recreate the burrito?”

“No,” she laughed, nudging him with her elbow. “I’m saying the ‘important’ part is that we’re choosing to be here, five years on. Not the backdrop.” She took a sip of her tea. “What if we just took the day off work? We could make a big breakfast, go for a long hike, and then come home and order from that ridiculously overpriced Italian place we love. No pressure, no itinerary. Just a day that’s ours.”

Liam considered this, his initial anxiety melting into a feeling of relief. The idea felt honest, a celebration of their quiet, daily commitment rather than a performance of it. “A day that’s ours,” he repeated, a genuine smile finally breaking through. “I like that. But I’m still getting the good wine.”


The kitchen faucet dripped a steady, percussive beat, a metronome to the quiet Sunday morning. Maya leaned against the counter, cradling a mug of coffee, watching Leo scroll through his phone at the small, cluttered table. A stack of unopened mail served as his coaster.

"So," she began, her voice soft but clear in the stillness. "Ten years. Next month."

Leo looked up, his glasses slightly askew. A small smile touched his lips. "A decade. Feels both like yesterday and a whole lifetime." He set the phone down. "I was just looking at flights, actually."

Maya raised an eyebrow. "Flights? I was thinking maybe we could finally redo the backyard. Get that patio poured. Remember we talked about it last spring?"

"We did," he conceded, leaning back in his chair. "But we also said we wanted to see the Redwoods before we turned forty. Ten years feels like a milestone, not a home improvement project."

She took a slow sip of her coffee, considering this. He had a point. Their life was a comfortable rhythm of shared chores, lazy Sundays, and the quiet intimacy of two people who knew each other's thoughts. But a decade deserved a marker, something to separate it from the other three thousand six hundred and fifty days.

"Okay," she said, pushing off the counter and sliding into the chair opposite him. "But a big trip means we postpone the patio for another year, and you know how much I hate that uneven flagstone by the back steps."

Leo reached across the table, his fingers brushing hers. "Deal. We'll get a nice, big pot for the back step as a temporary fix. And for the trip…" He turned his phone so she could see the screen. It showed a rustic cabin nestled amongst towering trees, a small deck with two Adirondack chairs facing the woods. "No city noise. Just us and a couple of good books."

Maya looked at the picture, then at him. A slow smile spread across her face. It wasn't a grand gesture, but it was them. Quiet, comfortable, and together. "That," she said, "sounds perfect."


The question of the anniversary had been hovering for a week, unspoken but present, like a low-pressure system. It was their fifth year, a milestone that felt solid, like the exposed brick wall in their apartment they’d spent a whole weekend sealing.

“So,” Maya said, not looking up from her laptop. She was cross-legged on the worn leather sofa, a half-empty mug of tea going cold on the side table. “Five years.”

David was at the small dining table, paying bills. He grunted in acknowledgment, the click of his pen a steady counterpoint to the hum of the refrigerator. “Half a decade. We should probably do something that doesn’t involve takeout and falling asleep during a movie.”

Maya closed her laptop. “That’s what I was thinking. But what? We’re not ‘fancy tasting menu’ people. And a big trip feels forced right now, with the car needing new tires.”

“Right.” He leaned back in his chair, the old wood creaking. “What did we do last year? Hiked that trail, got caught in the rain, and then ate burgers in the car with the heat blasting.”

“That was a good day,” she said, a small smile touching her lips.

“It was. But it wasn’t very… commemorative.” He stood and walked over to the sofa, sitting on the armrest beside her. His hand found her shoulder, his thumb rubbing a slow circle. “What if we just… fixed the place up? Not as a chore, but as a thing we do together. Like, remember that wobbly step on the back porch? And the pantry door that never latches?”

Maya tilted her head back to look at him, a question in her eyes.

“Hear me out,” he said. “We spend the day making our shared home better. We get our hands dirty, we swear at the instructions, we order a pizza. And then,” he paused, “we plant that dogwood tree we’ve been talking about for three years. In the backyard.”

She considered it, the image forming. Not a fleeting experience, but a permanent one. A living marker of their time together, rooted in the place they’d built. The practicality of it appealed to her, and the symbolism, quiet and unpretentious, felt exactly right.

“That,” she said, reaching up to cover his hand with her own, “is a perfect five-year plan.”


The October light was fading outside the kitchen window as Lena pulled a casserole from the oven. Across the room, Marcus was hunched over his laptop at the table, the glow of a spreadsheet reflecting in his glasses. The quiet between them was comfortable, filled with the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of a neighbor’s dog.

“Hey,” Lena said, setting the dish on a trivet. “We should figure out Saturday.”

Marcus looked up, blinking as if returning from a faraway place. “Saturday?”

“Our anniversary,” she reminded him, a small smile playing on her lips. “Seven years.”

He leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. Seven years. They’d met at a friend’s barbecue, moved in together after two, and bought this house three years ago. The big, showy celebrations had faded, replaced by a deep, settled rhythm.

“Right,” he said, closing the laptop. “What are you thinking? We could try that new steakhouse downtown. Or maybe just get takeout and finally watch that movie we’ve been talking about?”

Lena leaned against the counter, considering. The steakhouse felt like an event, a marker of the occasion. But the thought of getting dressed up, fighting for a reservation, and spending a small fortune felt less appealing than it once had. The idea of takeout was safe, almost too routine.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “It feels like it should be something… more than just another Saturday. But I’m also exhausted from this week.”

Marcus nodded, understanding. “Me too. What if we did something in between?” he suggested. “We could go for a hike at the state park in the morning, if the weather holds. Then come home, make that pasta from scratch we tried last winter—the one that took forever—and open that bottle of wine we’ve been saving.”

Lena’s smile widened. It wasn’t a grand gesture, but it was them. It was the effort of the pasta, the shared memory of the hike, the quiet intimacy of their own kitchen.

“I love that,” she said. “Especially the wine.”

He grinned. “Deal. Now, are you going to share that casserole, or just stare at it?”


The October light was fading into a soft gray as Daniel poured two fingers of bourbon into a single glass. He set it on the coffee table between them, a silent offering. Across from him, Lena was curled in the armchair, her laptop glowing against her face, a half-empty mug of tea growing cold at her elbow.

“So,” he said, settling onto the couch. “Ten years.”

She looked up, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Ten years since you showed up forty minutes late to a blind date and tried to convince me it was a test of my patience.”

“And you passed,” he said, returning the smile. “With flying colors. So, how do we mark the occasion? Big trip? Fancy dinner we have to book a month out?”

Lena closed her laptop, her expression turning thoughtful. “I was thinking about that,” she said. “We’ve done the big trips. The fancy dinners. I was almost going to suggest that new place downtown, the one with the chef’s tasting menu.” She paused, her fingers tracing the rim of her mug. “But then I thought about what I actually want to do.”

Daniel waited, taking a sip of the bourbon. The warmth spread through his chest.

“I want to sleep in,” she said finally. “No alarms. I want to make a huge pot of that good coffee, the one we only get from the roaster across town. Then, I want to spend the whole day in the yard. We can finally build that raised garden bed we’ve been talking about for two years. Get our hands dirty. Order a pizza for dinner and eat it on the living room floor, watching a movie we’ve seen a hundred times.”

She looked at him, a hint of uncertainty in her eyes. “Is that too… boring?”

Daniel leaned forward, placing the glass back on the table. He reached for her hand, his thumb stroking over her knuckles. The vision she painted wasn’t of a highlight reel, but of their life itself—the quiet, comfortable rhythm they’d built together.

“It sounds perfect,” he said, his voice soft. “We can even use that gift card my brother got us for the hardware store. We’ll need more soil.” He squeezed her hand. “It’s a date.”


The afternoon light was fading into a soft orange glow across the kitchen, where Maya was dicing an onion with surgical precision. Leo leaned against the counter, watching her, a dish towel slung over his shoulder.

“Okay, so,” he began, “for the tenth, I was thinking we could do that tasting menu at the French place downtown. The one with the garden patio.”

Maya paused, the knife hovering. “The one where the bill made you sweat through your shirt last time?”

“It’s a special occasion,” he said. “Ten years. We’re supposed to be a little financially irresponsible.”

She resumed chopping, the rhythm of the blade steady against the wooden board. “I don’t know. Ten years feels less like a fancy restaurant and more like… I don’t know, the day we spent six hours at that terrible, wonderful diner in Ohio because the car broke down. Remember? We had three orders of fries and played rummy until the tow truck came.”

Leo smiled, the memory softening his face. “You cheated at rummy.”

“I did not. You’re just a sore loser.” She scraped the onions into a pan, the sizzle filling the quiet space. “Maybe we don’t need a big production. Maybe we just need to be us, but with intention.”

He moved behind her, resting his chin on her shoulder. “So, what does that look like? A hike? A movie marathon?”

“What if we just recreated our first date?” she suggested, her voice low. “The cheap Italian place, then walking through that old bookshop, and getting ice cream even though it was freezing. Just the two of us, no phones, no work talk.”

Leo was quiet for a moment, considering it. It was simple, unglamorous. But it was theirs.

“That sounds perfect,” he said, kissing her temple. “But I’m still buying you the expensive bottle of wine at the Italian place. Ten years earns that.”

Maya smiled, leaning back into him. “Deal.”


The September air had a crispness to it as Maya stood at the kitchen window, watching the first few amber leaves detach from the oak in their backyard. Behind her, at the small dining table, Ben was nursing a cup of coffee, his laptop open but untouched.

“Ten years,” he said, not for the first time that week.

“Ten years,” she echoed, turning to face him. It felt substantial, like a piece of furniture they’d carried up several flights of stairs together. Their tenth anniversary of the day they’d met—a sticky July afternoon in a used bookstore—was on Saturday.

Ben closed the laptop. “So, what are we doing?”

Maya joined him at the table, tucking a leg beneath her. “My initial thought was the place we had our first real date. That little French bistro.”

“Which is now a place that sells artisanal dog treats,” Ben said, with a rueful smile. “I checked.”

“Ah.” She’d loved that place. The memory of their nervous laughter over a shared crème brûlée was still vivid.

“We could do a big trip,” he offered, but his voice lacked conviction. They’d just spent a chunk of their savings on a new roof. A trip felt performative, a debt-fueled gesture for an occasion that was just for them.

“What about a hike?” Maya suggested. “Mount Cardigan? The weather’s supposed to hold.”

Ben considered it. “We could pack a good lunch. Not just sandwiches—the good cheese, that fig jam you like, a decent bottle of wine for the summit.” He leaned back, warming to the idea. “And no phones. We can just… be there. For the whole day. Like we used to.”

Maya felt a small, solid click of rightness. It wasn’t about recreating the past, but about honoring how they’d grown into this quiet, shared rhythm. A decade had been built not on grand gestures, but on countless small decisions to stay, to listen, to choose each other. A long hike, with its steady effort and shared view, felt exactly right.

“Okay,” she said, a genuine smile finally breaking through. “Let’s do it. But you’re carrying the wine.”


The question of the anniversary hung between them all week, unspoken but present, like a low-frequency hum in their shared apartment. It was their tenth year, a milestone that felt weighty and solid, like the oak tree in their small backyard.

On a drizzly Saturday morning, Lena found Mark in the kitchen, staring into the open refrigerator. He wasn’t looking for food; he was just thinking.

“We should just decide,” she said, leaning against the doorframe. “The weather’s not getting better.”

Mark closed the fridge and turned, a half-smile on his face. “I know. I was thinking about that little cabin we rented in the Blue Ridge, year five. Remember the wood stove and that terrible bottle of wine we thought was fancy?”

Lena smiled, the memory warming her. “And the power went out, and we played cards by candlelight.” They had been so much younger then, their future a wide, unpaved road. Now, their life was a well-worn path, comfortable and familiar.

“We could try to recreate that,” he offered, but his voice lacked conviction. It felt like looking backward.

Lena crossed the kitchen and took his hand. His knuckles were cold from the fridge. “What if we didn’t try to recreate anything? What if we just marked it here?”

Mark looked around the room, at the scuffed floorboards and the art they’d chosen together, at the life they’d built. “Here?”

“Yes. Let’s get that ridiculously expensive steak from the butcher. We’ll open the bottle of wine we’ve been saving from your sister’s wedding. We’ll turn off our phones, put on a record, and just… be here. In the house we own together.”

He considered this, his gaze softening. The cabin had been an adventure, but this, this was the real achievement. The shared mortgage, the quiet mornings, the ability to be silent together without it feeling empty.

“I like that,” he said, finally. “I like that a lot.” He squeezed her hand. “It’s honest. It’s us.”

The decision made, the hum in the apartment quieted. It was replaced by a different feeling, one of deep and settled contentment. The best way to honor their past, they realized, was to simply inhabit their present.


The tenth anniversary fell on a Tuesday, which felt appropriate. Ten years of shared mornings weren’t marked by fireworks, but by the quiet choreography of two people moving around a kitchen. Mark was at the stove, flipping pancakes, while Chloe, still in her bathrobe, scrolled through her phone at the counter.

“Okay,” she said, not looking up. “We could do the tasting menu at that new place downtown. It’s two hundred a person, though.”

Mark slid a pancake onto a plate. “For a Tuesday? Seems like a lot of fuss. And a lot of money.”

“It’s a decade, Mark. Not a random Tuesday.”

He brought the plate over and set it in front of her. “I know. But remember our fifth? We did the whole fancy hotel thing. We were so tired from work we just ordered room service and fell asleep by nine.”

Chloe sighed, picking up her fork. “That was a good nap, though.” She took a bite, considering. “What were you thinking?”

Mark leaned against the counter, nursing his coffee. “I was thinking about the cabin. The one we rented up north that first year. The one with the creaky dock and the canoe.”

She smiled, a small, private thing. “Where you tried to fish and caught a boot.”

“It was a very nice boot,” he said. “Look, we could drive up Friday. Just the two of us. No reservations, no dress code. We could get groceries from that little market, cook a steak, build a fire.”

Chloe put her fork down. The idea wasn’t grand, but it was them. It wasn’t a performance of a decade; it was a continuation of it. The thought of a quiet lake, of Mark’s hand in hers on a worn wooden dock, was suddenly more appealing than any Michelin star.

“Do you think the same screen door is still broken?” she asked.

“I’m counting on it,” he replied, his eyes crinkling.

She reached for her phone again, but this time not to look at restaurant menus. “Okay,” she said, her voice softer. “Let’s see if it’s available.”


The late afternoon sun cut a warm stripe across the kitchen floor, illuminating dust motes that drifted in the quiet air. Lena stood at the counter, methodically stripping the leaves from a bundle of thyme. Across the room, Sam leaned against the doorframe, a crumpled takeout menu in his hand.

“We could just do the usual,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “That Italian place on Vine. We know the owner, the wine list is good…”

Lena didn’t look up. “We do that for birthdays, promotions, Tuesdays.” She dropped the bare thyme sprigs into a small bowl. “This is ten years, Sam. It feels like it should be… deliberate.”

He pushed off the doorframe and walked over, setting the menu on the counter. “Deliberate how? A trip? A party? A new piece of furniture we’ll argue about assembling?” He said it with a smile, but the question was genuine.

Lena finally turned to face him, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “No. I don’t want a production. I want it to feel like us, but… concentrated.” She paused, searching for the right words. “Our life is loud. Work, your sister’s calls, the neighbors’ dog. I want quiet. I want to remember the sound of you turning a page.”

Sam’s smile softened. He understood. Their affection wasn’t built on grand gestures, but on the comfortable silence of shared space, the easy rhythm of their days. “So, a weekend away? A cabin somewhere?”

“Maybe,” she said, her eyes brightening. “Or maybe… we don’t leave. We just unplug. No phones, no internet. We cook something complicated together, we open that bottle of Burgundy we’ve been saving for a day that never comes, and we just… talk. Or don’t talk. For a whole weekend.”

He considered it, picturing the two of them in their own home, transformed by intention. It seemed more intimate, more honest, than any restaurant. “A staycation,” he said, testing the word. “But with rules.”

Lena nodded, a genuine smile finally breaking through. “Exactly. We’re not celebrating a date, Sam. We’re celebrating a decade of living. Let’s just live it, on purpose, for one weekend.”

He reached out and took her hand, his thumb tracing a small scar on her knuckle. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s do it. But I get to choose the complicated recipe.”

“Deal,” she said, leaning into him. The takeout menu fluttered, forgotten, to the floor.


The September air had turned crisp, and the light through the kitchen window was thin and golden. Maya was at the counter, slicing apples for a crumble, while Ben leaned against the doorframe, a dish towel slung over his shoulder.

“Ten years,” he said, as if testing the weight of it.

Maya didn’t look up. “Ten years since you asked me to be your girlfriend in that terrible diner.”

“The pancakes were good,” he countered. “And you said yes before the coffee refill.”

She smiled, sliding the apples into a bowl. “So. How do we mark a decade without making it feel like a wedding we’re not having?”

It was the question they’d been circling for weeks. They’d talked about a trip, but flights were expensive and work was demanding. A big party felt performative for two people who preferred quiet dinners. A piece of jewelry seemed too conventional.

Ben crossed the small kitchen and leaned his hip against the counter beside her. “I keep coming back to the idea of time,” he said. “Not spending money, but spending attention. What if we took the day off and did the things we actually did that first year? Walked to the river, got lunch at the taco truck, watched a movie on the couch with the good blanket.”

Maya turned to face him, her hands dusted with cinnamon. “That’s not a celebration. That’s a Tuesday.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “A Tuesday is rushed. This would be slow. We’d tell each other the whole story again, from the beginning. Every detail we remember. No phones. Just us, remembering out loud.”

She considered it. The idea had a quiet gravity. It wasn’t about escaping their life, but inhabiting it more fully. “And at the end,” she said slowly, “we make a list. Ten things we want to be true in the next ten years. Not a marriage license. Just a promise.”

Ben’s face softened. “I’d like that.”

“Then let’s do it,” she said, returning to the apples. “But I’m getting the good maple syrup for the pancakes.”


The September air had a bite to it as Maya pulled into the driveway, the porch light already glowing a warm welcome. Inside, she found David at the kitchen table, his laptop open and a stack of takeout menus fanned out beside it.

“Okay,” he said, not looking up. “I’ve narrowed it down. We either do the whole tasting menu at that new place downtown, or we rent a cabin for the weekend. Just the two of us, some good hiking, maybe a fireplace.”

Maya dropped her keys in the ceramic bowl by the door, a small smile playing on her lips. “Those are both very elaborate.”

He finally looked up, his brow furrowed. “It’s five years, Maya. Five years of cohabitating without killing each other. That deserves more than a high-five.”

She walked over and sat in the chair across from him, nudging a menu for a Thai place out of the way. “I know it does. But we just paid for a new water heater. And you’re trying to save for that conference in the spring.” She reached across the table and placed her hand over his. “I’m not saying we shouldn’t celebrate. I’m saying maybe the celebration doesn’t have to be expensive to be important.”

David sighed, turning his hand over to interlace his fingers with hers. “I just… I want it to feel special. Like we’re not just two people splitting a mortgage and fighting over whose turn it is to clean the bathroom.”

“We’re not,” she said softly. “We’re the two people who know exactly how the other takes their coffee. We’re the people who binge-watched that terrible reality show together just so we could make fun of it. That’s the stuff that matters.”

He was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing a circle on the back of her hand. “So what do you want to do?”

She leaned back, a genuine smile replacing the tiredness in her eyes. “I want to make your grandmother’s lasagna recipe. The one you said you’d only ever eat again if you were truly happy. And I want to open that bottle of wine we bought on our trip to the Finger Lakes. And then,” she paused, “I want to sit on the back porch and listen to that playlist we made during our first road trip.”

David’s expression softened. He closed the laptop with a decisive click. “That sounds perfect.” He stood up, pulling her to her feet. “I’ll go get the good wine glasses. Not the ones from the grocery store.”


The late September sun slanted through the kitchen window, illuminating dust motes dancing above the worn oak table. Maya leaned against the counter, cradling a mug of tea, watching Leo scroll through his phone. Their tenth anniversary was next Saturday.

“We could finally try that omakase place downtown,” Leo suggested, not looking up. “The one with the six-month waiting list. Someone probably canceled.”

Maya took a slow sip. “Fancy sushi feels like a birthday. This is… different.” She set her mug down. “I was thinking we could rent a cabin. Somewhere quiet, upstate. Just hike, cook a bad stew, play Scrabble like we used to.”

Leo finally met her eyes, a small smile playing on his lips. “Scrabble? You hate losing at Scrabble.”

“I’ve matured,” she said, her tone perfectly flat.

He laughed, a short, warm sound. “Right.” He put his phone face-down on the table. “A cabin sounds good. But I was also thinking… we’ve been talking about redoing the backyard. The patio is a disaster. We could spend the weekend finally building that stone fire pit we saved on Pinterest three years ago.”

Maya considered it. A decade of shared space, shared chores, shared decisions. Their relationship wasn’t built on grand gestures, but on the thousands of small, unglamorous collaborations that made a house a home. A weekend of arguing over gravel and leveling sand felt, strangely, more honest than an elegant dinner.

“That’s a lot of work for an anniversary,” she said, but her voice was soft.

“We could get takeout from the taco truck after,” he countered. “Eat it sitting on the new stones, even if it’s cold by then.”

She walked over to the table and sat down across from him. “We’d probably end up sore and covered in dirt.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, reaching for her hand. “Probably.”

She squeezed his fingers. “Okay. Let’s build the fire pit.”


The kitchen still smelled of coffee and toast as Maya stood at the sink, rinsing her mug. Outside, the first real cold snap of autumn had stripped the maple in their front yard, leaving a scatter of red and gold across the lawn. She heard Daniel’s footsteps on the stairs, then the soft thud of his work bag hitting the floor by the door.

“So,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “Ten years.”

She turned, drying her hands on a dish towel. “Ten years,” she echoed, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Feels both longer and shorter, somehow.”

It was the anniversary of the day they’d met, a date they’d always noted with a nice dinner. But a decade felt different, heavier with significance. They’d talked about it in passing for weeks, but hadn’t landed on a plan.

“I was thinking,” Daniel began, his voice careful, “we could do the whole thing. Fancy hotel downtown, that French place you like. The one with the tiny portions and the big bill.” He grinned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Maya leaned back against the counter. “That does sound lovely,” she admitted. “But I was actually thinking the opposite. Remember that little cabin we rented in the Shenandoahs, our second year? The one with the wood-burning stove and the terrible cell service?”

Daniel’s expression softened with the memory. “Where you nearly set the kitchen curtain on fire trying to make s’mores indoors.”

“A minor incident,” she said, waving a hand. “But I was thinking… a weekend away, just us. No work emails, no city noise. We could hike, cook simple meals, play Scrabble by the fire.” She paused, meeting his gaze. “It feels more… us.”

He crossed the small kitchen and rested his hands on her hips. “I’d have to check my PTO balance,” he said, but his tone was already deciding. “And I’m not letting you anywhere near the matches this time.”

She laughed, a genuine sound that filled the room. “Deal. You’re in charge of fire safety. I’ll be in charge of the wine.”

He kissed her forehead. “Happy ten years, Maya.”

“Happy ten years,” she replied, leaning into him, the decision settling over them as comfortably as the worn floorboards beneath their feet.


The September air had a crispness that suited the ten-year mark, Mara thought, as she watched Daniel from the kitchen doorway. He was on the back porch, sanding a leg of the oak table they’d bought together their first year in the house. The rhythmic scratch of sandpaper was the soundtrack of their shared life—a constant, low-grade hum of maintenance and care.

“We could just go to The Grotto,” she said, stepping out with two mugs of coffee. “The one in the city. The tasting menu is supposed to be incredible.”

Daniel took his mug, his fingers brushing hers, leaving a faint dusting of sawdust. “And spend four hundred dollars to eat a flower petal? We could buy a new planer for that.”

“It’s our ten-year anniversary, Dan. Not a Tuesday.”

He looked up, his brown eyes serious behind his safety glasses. “I know. That’s why I was thinking… we could finally build the pergola.”

Mara sighed, but it wasn’t a sigh of frustration. It was the sigh of someone who knew the script. For ten years, their biggest disagreements weren’t about if they loved each other, but how to best express it. He built; she curated. He saw permanence in a structure; she saw it in a memory.

“We spend every weekend on this house,” she said softly. “I love it. I love what we’ve made. But for one night, I don’t want to be sanding or painting or deciding on grout color. I want to get dressed up and remember why we started all this in the first place.”

Daniel stopped sanding. He set the block down carefully and looked at her, really looked. He saw the woman who had patiently held a level for him a hundred times, who had picked out every paint color, who had made their house a home. He saw the faint lines around her eyes that he’d earned the right to witness.

“Okay,” he said, a slow smile spreading. “How about this? We go to The Grotto. We get the tasting menu. We talk about anything but the house.” He paused. “And on Sunday, we buy the lumber for the pergola.”

Mara smiled, a real one that reached her eyes. “Deal.”

He stood and pulled her into a hug, his flannel shirt smelling of wood and autumn. The house stood solid behind them, a testament to their partnership, while the future stretched out, ready to be built.


The question of the anniversary had hung between them all week, unspoken but present in the tidy corners of their shared bungalow. It was their tenth year together, a milestone that felt weighty and solid, like the oak tree in their front yard.

On Saturday morning, Daniel was at the kitchen table, nursing a mug of coffee and scrolling through his phone. He looked up as Lena came in, her hair still damp from the shower.

“So,” he began, setting the phone down. “I was looking at flights to the coast.”

Lena paused, her hand on the refrigerator door. “The coast? That’s a big trip.”

“It’s a big anniversary,” he countered, his tone gentle. “We could get a little place by the water, eat seafood, and just… be away.”

She pulled out a carton of eggs and closed the fridge, her back to him for a moment. He watched her, waiting. Ten years had taught him the value of patience with her.

“I saw that,” she said finally, turning around. “And it sounds lovely. But I was thinking about the deck.”

Daniel’s brow furrowed. “The deck?”

“The one we’ve been talking about building for three years,” she said, a small smile playing on her lips. “We have the plans. We finally have the savings. What if we spent the weekend finally doing it? Just the two of us, building something for the next ten years.”

He stared at her, and for a second she worried she’d misread the moment. Then a slow grin spread across his face. “You want to spend our tenth anniversary hauling lumber?”

“I want to spend it with you,” she corrected. “Creating something. Not just escaping.”

Daniel laughed, the sound warm and familiar. “Okay. But I’m still getting you a fancy dinner on the deck when it’s finished. Pizza on a blanket, under the stars.” He stood and crossed the kitchen, pulling her into a hug. “Deal?” he asked into her hair.

“Deal,” she whispered, leaning into him. The trip could wait. This felt more like them.


The morning light slanted through the kitchen window, illuminating dust motes dancing over the coffee maker. Daniel leaned against the counter, watching Maya scroll through her phone at the small, cluttered table. A stack of unopened mail sat between them like a silent third party.

“So,” he began, his voice a little too casual. “Ten years.”

Maya looked up, a slight smile touching her lips. “Ten years. It feels both like a lifetime and a blink.” She set her phone down. “We should do something to mark it. Not just dinner at the usual place.”

“Agreed,” Daniel said, pouring himself a mug. “I was thinking we could finally take that trip to the Smoky Mountains. Rent a cabin, do some hiking, unplug for a long weekend.”

Maya considered it, her fingers tracing the rim of her own mug. “That sounds peaceful,” she admitted. “But we just traveled for your sister’s wedding a few months ago. The budget is still recovering. And honestly, the thought of packing and airports…” she trailed off, shaking her head.

Daniel nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. He knew she was right. “Okay, so maybe something closer. What if we finally tackled the backyard? We’ve been talking about building that fire pit for two years. We could spend the weekend doing it together, then have a fire that night. Just us.”

Maya’s expression softened. The idea had a certain appeal—a tangible result of their shared life. But it felt more like a chore than a celebration. “I see the appeal,” she said carefully. “But I think I want the day itself to feel less like work and more like… a pause. A moment to just appreciate this.”

He walked over and sat down across from her. “What did you have in mind?”

She reached across the table, her hand covering his. “Remember that first apartment? The tiny one with the radiator that clanked all night? We were so broke we celebrated six months by splitting a pizza from that place on the corner and watching the sunset from the fire escape.”

Daniel smiled, the memory vivid and warm. “Best cheap pizza in the city.”

“It was,” she agreed. “I was thinking… we could go back. Not to the apartment, but to that neighborhood. Walk around, see what’s changed. Get a slice from that same pizzeria, if it’s still there. And then come home. To *our* home. And just be here. Maybe open that bottle of wine we’ve been saving.”

He turned his hand over, lacing his fingers with hers. The simplicity of it was perfect. It wasn't about a grand gesture or a major project. It was about the thread that connected their past to their present. “A pilgrimage,” he said softly.

“A celebration of the ordinary,” she corrected with a smile. “Which, with you, has always felt pretty extraordinary.”

He squeezed her hand. “That sounds perfect.” The decision settled over them, comfortable and right, as the sun climbed higher and filled the kitchen with light.


The September light was thinning through the kitchen window when Maya closed her laptop. Across the room, Daniel was hunched over a cutting board, meticulously slicing limes. They’d lived in this house for four of the six years they’d been together, and the rhythm of their evenings had become as familiar as the worn patch on the rug by the sink.

“So,” she said, her voice breaking the comfortable quiet. “It’s six years on Saturday.”

Daniel looked up, a lime half still in his hand. “I know. I was thinking we could finally try that tasting menu at The Alderwood. The one we always say we’ll go to for a ‘real’ occasion.”

Maya smiled, but it was a little tight. “We could. But we did a big dinner for five years. And with the roof fund looking the way it does…”

He set the knife down, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “Right. The roof fund. Adulting wins again.” He wasn’t annoyed, just stating a fact. A beat of silence passed. “Okay, so what are you thinking? We could finally hike that trail at the state park, the one with the lookout. Pack a lunch, make a day of it.”

Maya stood up and walked over to the counter, leaning against it. “That’s the thing. I don’t want to *do* anything. I don’t want to plan a menu or pack a backpack or even put on real pants.” She looked at him. “I just want to be here. With you. No phones, no errands. We could make pancakes, sit on the porch with coffee, watch a movie in the middle of the day. Maybe get takeout from the taco truck.”

Daniel considered this, his expression softening. “That sounds like a regular Saturday.”

“Exactly,” she said. “But a deliberate one. A whole day where we decide to do nothing together, instead of just falling into it.”

He smiled then, a real one that reached his eyes. “I like it. It’s very… us.”

“It is,” she agreed. “It’s the part we’re actually good at.”

He slid the limes into a bowl. “Deal. I’ll get the good coffee beans. You’re in charge of the pancake mix.” He paused. “And maybe we can finally finish that puzzle on the coffee table.”

“Now you’re just talking dirty,” Maya laughed, and the decision felt settled, a quiet, perfect plan for two people who had built their life not on grand gestures, but on the simple, shared comfort of a Tuesday afternoon.


The late September light slanted through the kitchen window, catching the dust motes floating above the worn oak table. Leo was at the stove, stirring a pot of simmering tomato sauce, the scent of garlic and basil filling the room. Maya sat across from him, her laptop open, but her eyes were on the calendar app on her phone.

“So,” she began, her voice cutting through the quiet domesticity. “Ten years. Next month.”

Leo glanced over his shoulder, a wooden spoon in hand. “I know. It’s a little wild, isn’t it?” He turned back to the sauce, giving it a final stir before killing the heat. “What are you thinking? Big trip? We could finally drive up the coast. See those giant redwoods.”

Maya considered it, her finger tracing the edge of her phone. “We could. But I was thinking about the house. The mortgage is a constant hum in the back of my mind.” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “What if we used the money we’d spend on a trip to refinish the back deck? We’ve been talking about it for two years. It’s literally rotting in places.”

Leo leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. “A deck. For our tenth anniversary.” He didn’t sound dismissive, just thoughtful. “I see the logic. It’s practical. It’s an investment.” He looked out the window at the weathered planks. “But it feels… transactional. Like something a landlord would do, not us.”

“It’s not transactional,” Maya countered, closing her laptop. “It’s building something. We’d be investing in our home, the place we’ve built together. A new deck means summer dinners outside, grilling with friends, not worrying about someone falling through a board.”

A slow smile spread across Leo’s face. “Okay, I hear you. How about a compromise?” He walked over and sat down next to her. “We do the deck—we hire someone, we don’t spend our anniversary weekend doing manual labor. And then, with what’s left over, we do one night. A really good hotel in the city, a fancy dinner, maybe see some jazz. Just us. We mark the decade, not with a trip or a project, but with a plan for the future and a celebration of the present.”

Maya’s initial resistance melted. It was perfect. It wasn’t just a trip or a repair; it was a decision they’d made together, a blueprint for the next ten years. She leaned over and kissed him, tasting tomatoes and home. “Deal.”


The afternoon light through the kitchen window was thin and gray, a sure sign that November had truly settled in. Maya leaned against the counter, cradling a mug of tea, while Ben sat at the small table, scrolling through his phone with a slight frown.

“So,” she said, her voice soft but clear in the quiet house. “Ten years.”

Ben looked up, a tired smile breaking through his concentration. “Ten years. It feels like both a blink and an entire lifetime.” He put his phone down. “I was just looking at flights to somewhere warm. Maybe a long weekend in San Diego? Get out of this gloom.”

Maya took a slow sip of her tea, considering it. The idea was tempting—sun, ocean, a break from work. But something about it felt off. “It’s a nice thought,” she said carefully. “But we just got back from your sister’s wedding a few months ago. I’m a little traveled out, and honestly, the thought of packing a suitcase makes me tired.”

Ben’s shoulders relaxed slightly, a hint of relief in his eyes. “Okay. No flights. What are you thinking?”

She walked over and sat down across from him. “I was thinking about our first apartment. The tiny one on Ash Street, with the radiator that clanked all night. We were so broke we celebrated our first anniversary with a frozen pizza and a two-dollar bottle of wine.”

He laughed, a genuine, warm sound. “And we thought it was the height of romance.”

“It was,” she insisted. “Because it was just us. No distractions.” She reached across the table, her fingers brushing his. “I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to stay here. I want to cook that ridiculous pasta dish we tried to make that first year—the one that took four hours. We can open a good bottle of wine this time, turn off our phones, and just… be here. In the home we’ve made.”

Ben turned his hand over, lacing his fingers with hers. The idea wasn’t flashy, but it was right. It was them. “A staycation,” he said, nodding slowly. “I love it. But I’m in charge of the wine. No more two-dollar bottles.”

Maya smiled, a full smile that reached her eyes. “Deal.” Outside, the gray day didn’t seem so gloomy anymore.


The tenth anniversary fell on a Thursday, a fact Mara kept circling back to as she chopped vegetables at the kitchen island. Ten years. A whole decade of shared grocery lists and clogged drains and quiet Sunday mornings. It felt monumental, too big for a simple dinner reservation.

“We could just do the usual,” Ben said, emerging from the pantry with a bag of rice. “That little Italian place with the good bread.”

Mara shook her head, the knife stilling in her hand. “We do that for birthdays. This is… different.” She looked at him, his familiar face half-lit by the under-cabinet lights. “It feels like it should be a statement, not just a meal.”

Ben leaned against the counter, considering this. He knew her well enough to know she wasn’t asking for a diamond or a surprise party. “A statement of what, exactly?”

“That we’re still here,” she said, her voice softer now. “That we chose this, and we keep choosing it.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze drifting to the framed photo on the wall—the two of them, younger, on a hiking trail in Colorado. “So, no fancy dinner,” he mused. “What if we did the opposite? What if we went back to the beginning?”

Mara tilted her head. “The beginning?”

“Remember that first weekend trip? To that rundown cabin by the lake? We cooked hot dogs on a fire, got rained on, and the power went out.” He smiled at the memory. “We spent the whole night talking by candlelight. It was the best time.”

A genuine smile spread across Mara’s face. “It was. We didn’t have a clue what we were doing, but we were doing it together.”

“So, let’s do that,” Ben said, his voice gaining conviction. “Let’s rent a cabin for the weekend. No fancy restaurants, no big gestures. Just us, some firewood, and maybe a better weather forecast. A chance to unplug and remember why we started this whole thing.”

Mara put the knife down and walked over to him, slipping her arms around his waist. The proposal felt right—not a celebration of an event, but of the quiet, enduring architecture of their life. “Okay,” she agreed, resting her head against his chest. “Let’s go back to the beginning.”


The morning light slanted through the kitchen window, catching the steam rising from Marcus’s coffee mug. He leaned against the counter, watching Elena scroll through her phone at the table. The date on the wall calendar—a simple, unassuming square—was circled in blue ink. Ten years. Not a wedding anniversary, but the day they’d signed the lease on this narrow rowhouse, the day they’d officially become a household.

“So,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Ten years in this place. What’s the move? Fancy dinner? Weekend away?”

Elena looked up, her brow furrowed in thought. She tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “I was just looking at that. A weekend away sounds nice, but the car needs new brakes. And we just paid for the water heater.”

Marcus nodded, taking a slow sip. The practical weight of homeownership was a constant, quiet partner in their relationship. “True. But we can’t just let it slide. It’s a decade. We’ve repainted every room twice, fought over the thermostat, and learned exactly which floorboard creaks outside the bathroom.”

A smile touched her lips. “Don’t forget the summer of the rogue squirrel in the attic.”

“How could I?” he chuckled. “I still have the scars from the trap.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the hum of the refrigerator a familiar soundtrack. Elena’s eyes drifted to the backyard, where the maple tree they’d planted as a sapling now cast a wide, dappled shade.

“What if we didn’t go anywhere?” she asked softly. “What if we mark it *here*? A proper dinner, but cooked together. We could open that bottle of wine we bought in Oregon. The one we said was for a special occasion.”

Marcus followed her gaze to the tree. A decade of roots, both in the ground and between them. He pushed off the counter and walked over, resting his hands on her shoulders. “I like that. We can get the good steaks from the butcher, and I’ll finally attempt those garlic mashed potatoes you like.”

She leaned her head back against him. “And then maybe we can sit on the back steps and listen to the neighborhood, like we did the first night we moved in.”

“Deal,” he said, kissing the top of her head. It wasn’t a grand gesture, but it was a promise—a quiet celebration of the life they’d built, not just in the house, but within its walls.


The September air had a bite to it as Maya pulled into the driveway, the porch light already glowing a welcome. Inside, she found David in the kitchen, frowning at a cookbook with the same intensity he usually reserved for spreadsheets.

“I was thinking,” he said, not looking up, “we could try that new tasting menu place downtown. The one with the garden on the roof.”

Maya hung her keys on the hook by the door. “That’s a thought.” She leaned against the counter, watching him. “But is that what you want to do? Or what you think we’re supposed to do?”

He finally met her eyes, a small line of concentration between his brows. “It’s seven years, Maya. That feels… significant.”

“It is,” she agreed, moving to stand beside him. She closed the cookbook. “But we spent the last month painting the guest room and fixing the leaky faucet. I’m tired. The last thing I want is to get dressed up and make polite conversation over tiny, expensive food.”

David’s shoulders relaxed, just a fraction. “Okay. So what does ‘significant’ look like to you?”

She thought for a moment, her gaze drifting to the living room, to the worn sofa they’d bought together at a garage sale their first year. “Remember our first anniversary? We were broke. We got that cheap wine and made tacos, and then we rearranged the furniture at midnight because we couldn’t agree on where the TV should go.”

A smile touched his lips. “We fought about it for an hour, and then ordered a pizza.”

“And we’ve been fighting about furniture placement ever since,” she said, grinning. “What if we did that? Not the fighting. The rest of it. We could get ingredients from the good market, make a real dinner together. Open that bottle of wine we’ve been saving. Just… be here. In the home we’ve made.”

He was quiet for a second, then he nodded slowly. “I’d like that.” He reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I’d like that a lot better than a stuffy restaurant. But I’m still not moving the armchair.”

Maya laughed, the sound filling the quiet kitchen. “We’ll see about that,” she said, and kissed him. It was settled.


The September light was thinning into that particular amber that made their apartment feel suspended in time. Maya was hunched over her laptop at the kitchen table, a spreadsheet of potential weekend getaways glowing on the screen. Daniel stood at the counter, methodically chopping cilantro for the tacos they’d planned.

“So,” she said, not looking up, “five years. We could do the cabin thing again. Big Sur. Or there’s a farmhouse in the Hudson Valley with a wood-fired hot tub.”

Daniel scraped the cilantro into a bowl. “We did the cabin for year three. And I think that farmhouse is the one where Greg saw a bat in the bedroom.”

“That was a different one.” She clicked a link. “This one has goats. You like goats.”

He wiped his hands on a dish towel and walked over, leaning down to look at the screen. His chin was close to her shoulder. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The spreadsheet listed prices, distances, and star ratings with the clinical precision of a business decision. It had been like this for the last few anniversaries—nice dinners, a bed-and-breakfast, a photo for the fridge. Comfortable. Expected.

“Can I make a counter-proposal?” Daniel asked.

Maya finally turned. “Is it a cruise? Because I’m still not doing a cruise.”

“No.” He straightened up. “I was thinking we stay here. Not in a lazy way. I mean we take the money we’d spend on gas and a rental and we finally get the good knives sharpened. The ones your mom gave us. And we go to that butcher in the Strip District, the expensive one, and we get two really good steaks. And we open the bottle of wine we’ve been saving since my brother’s wedding.”

Maya stared at him, then back at the spreadsheet. She closed the laptop with a soft click.

“The good knives,” she repeated. “The ones we never use because they’re too dull.”

“Exactly. We fix them. We make something together. We don’t drive four hours to sit in a hot tub and look at our phones.”

A small smile touched her lips. “What about dessert?”

“I’ll make the chocolate cake. The one with the espresso. The one that takes all afternoon.”

Maya stood up, leaving the laptop on the table. She walked to the drawer where the neglected knife set sat in its wooden block. She pulled out the chef’s knife, ran her thumb carefully along the edge, and winced.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s do that.”


The September light was thinning into that pale gold that made the kitchen’s worn linoleum look almost elegant. Maya was at the table, a half-empty mug of tea beside her open laptop, but she wasn’t looking at the screen. She was watching Daniel, who stood at the counter meticulously trimming the stems of a bouquet of sunflowers he’d brought home.

“So,” she said, breaking the comfortable silence. “Ten years. It feels both massive and like it happened in a blink.”

Daniel placed the last sunflower into a ceramic pitcher, a find from a long-ago flea market. “It does. Which means we should probably do something more than our usual ‘anniversary dinner at the place with the good bread.’” He turned, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “I was thinking about that cabin up in the Hudson Valley. The one with the wood stove and no cell service.”

Maya smiled, but it was a thoughtful smile, not a committed one. “That sounds perfect in a lot of ways. Quiet, just us. But I was also thinking… maybe we could finally put that offer from your parents to use their timeshare in Florida? Disconnect, but with a pool and a blender for margaritas.” She shrugged. “Ten years feels like it deserves a little bit of luxury, you know? We’ve been so careful all year, saving for the roof.”

He walked over, leaning against the table beside her. “That’s true. The roof is a very unromantic, very adult accomplishment.” He reached down and gently closed her laptop. “But the cabin is paid for with a gas card and groceries. The Florida trip is flights, rental car, eating out… it adds up. The whole point of the cabin is that it’s cheap *and* romantic.”

“Romantic, yes. But also potentially cold and damp in October,” she countered, her voice gentle. “I love the idea of a fire and hiking, but I also love the idea of not having to build a fire just to be warm.”

Daniel was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing a slow circle on her shoulder. “What if we split the difference? We do the cabin for two nights. We unplug, we hike, we read. Then, on the way home, we stop at that ridiculous, overpriced lodge we always joke about. One night of pure, unearned comfort. Best of both.”

Maya looked up at him, a slow smile spreading across her face. She reached for his hand, lacing her fingers through his. “A compromise. For our ten-year anniversary. That feels about right.” She squeezed his hand. “Okay. Let’s do it.”


The September light was fading to a soft amber against the kitchen window, casting long shadows across the mail piled on the counter. Maya sorted through it, pausing at a postcard from a local art gallery. The image on the front was a vibrant, abstract painting of two figures intertwined.

“Hey,” she said, holding it up as Leo walked in, loosening his tie. “Five years. We should do something, not just the usual dinner.”

Leo took the postcard, studying it for a moment before setting it down. “Like what? We could finally take that trip to the San Juan Islands. See the orcas.” He leaned against the counter, his expression thoughtful. “It’s far enough to feel like an escape, but we can still drive.”

Maya considered it. The idea was tempting, a whole week of salty air and quiet coves. But a small, practical voice in her head spoke up. “That’s a lot of money right now, especially with the roof needing that patch before winter.” She sighed, tracing the edge of the postcard. “I want it to be special, but I don’t want to put it on a credit card.”

Leo nodded, his gaze drifting to the window. “Fair point. What about something smaller, but more permanent? We keep talking about turning the backyard into a proper garden. We could spend the weekend building those raised beds. A gift for the house, for us.”

A slow smile spread across Maya’s face. It was so like Leo to think of building something rather than buying an experience. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was them. “I like that,” she admitted. “Maybe we can do a little of both. We build the beds on Saturday, and on Sunday, we drive out to that farm stand we love. Get the soil and the first batch of fall vegetables to plant. Kale, maybe some late lettuce.”

Leo pushed off the counter, a grin replacing his tiredness. “And maybe a new rose bush for the corner. One that’ll come back every year.”

“It’s a plan,” Maya said, feeling the rightness of it settle in her chest. It wasn’t a grand gesture, but a shared project. A way to mark the time by sinking their hands into the same earth they’d built their life on.


The September light was fading, casting long shadows across the living room floor. Leo was hunched over his laptop at the kitchen table, a half-empty mug of cold coffee by his elbow. Across the room, Maya was curled on the couch, a book open on her lap, but her eyes were on him.

“Leo,” she said, her voice soft but clear.

He looked up, blinking as if surfacing from deep water. “Hmm?”

“Our five-year anniversary is in two weeks,” she said, closing the book with a gentle thud. “We should talk about it.”

He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. “Right. I was thinking about that. We could just do the usual—nice dinner at that Italian place we like.”

Maya considered it, her finger tracing the embossed title on the book’s cover. “We could,” she said slowly. “But five years feels… bigger than the usual. I don’t need a big party or anything. But maybe something more than just dinner?”

Leo stood and walked over, settling on the arm of the couch. “Like what?” he asked, not with impatience, but genuine curiosity.

“I was thinking about that trip we keep saying we’ll take,” she said, looking up at him. “A long weekend, maybe. Just the two of us. Hiking, a cabin somewhere. Disconnect.”

He thought for a moment, his gaze drifting to the window. He worked long hours, and the idea of truly unplugging was both appealing and daunting. “A cabin could be nice,” he admitted. “But we’d need to find one available this late. And I’d have to move some things around at work.”

“I know,” Maya said. “But we can try. If it doesn’t work, we fall back on the Italian place.” She smiled. “I just want to mark it with you, not just let the day pass.”

Leo reached down and took her hand, his thumb stroking her knuckles. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s do it. Let’s find a cabin.” The decision felt solid, a small, shared project that was about them, not their jobs or the logistics of their shared life, but simply about the fact that they had chosen each other for five years.


The October light was fading fast through the kitchen window, casting long shadows across the mail piled on the counter. Leo sifted through it, separating bills from junk, while Maya stirred a pot of butternut squash soup on the stove. The air was warm and smelled of nutmeg and garlic.

“Can you believe it’s been five years?” Maya asked, not turning around. “Five years since that disastrous camping trip where you forgot the tent poles.”

Leo winced, a smile playing on his lips. “In my defense, you forgot the coffee. We were both a mess.” He tossed a flyer for a local election into the recycling bin. “So, what are we thinking for the big Five? We could do the classic. Fancy dinner, maybe that new French place downtown? Get dressed up.”

Maya tasted the soup, her expression thoughtful. “We could. But we did the fancy dinner for our third anniversary. And the fourth, if you recall, was the weekend in the mountains.” She turned to face him, leaning against the counter. “I was thinking maybe we should do something that’s more… us. Not a performance of a couple, but just us.”

Leo raised an eyebrow. “What did you have in mind? A night of competitive board games and ordering too much Thai food?”

Maya grinned. “Close. I was thinking about that old oak tree in the park, the one by the duck pond. The one where you first told me you loved me.”

A warmth spread through Leo’s chest. “The one where a goose tried to steal your sandwich.”

“Exactly,” she said. “I thought we could pack a really good picnic. Not just sandwiches, but the good cheese, a decent bottle of wine, that sourdough from the bakery you like. We could bring a blanket, maybe a speaker for some music. Just sit under that tree, talk, and watch the sunset. No reservations, no crowds. Just us.”

Leo walked over and wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. He watched the soup bubble for a moment. “That sounds perfect,” he murmured. “Way better than trying to impress each other with overpriced appetizers. Let’s do it. But I’m picking the playlist.”

“Deal,” Maya said, leaning back into him. “As long as I get to pick the cheese.”


The September light was thinning into a pale gold across the kitchen table, where Maya had spread out a map of the state. She traced a route with her finger, her brow furrowed in concentration. “There’s a stretch of the Blue Ridge Parkway,” she said, “with a lodge that has a fireplace in every room. We could be there in four hours.”

Daniel, leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee, watched her. He knew that look—the meticulous planner, the seeker of perfect moments. “Four hours in the car,” he said, his voice gentle. “For our tenth anniversary. I was thinking something a little less… mapped.”

Maya looked up, a strand of dark hair falling across her face. “Less mapped? Daniel, you got us lost on the way to the grocery store last week.”

“That was a scenic detour,” he said, grinning. “But seriously. Ten years. We’ve done the trips. We’ve done the fancy dinners. Maybe we should do the thing we’re actually good at.”

“Which is?” she asked, a skeptical smile playing on her lips.

“Being here.” He pushed off the counter and sat across from her. “I’m thinking about the first night we moved in. The power was out, we had one bottle of wine, and we ate cold pizza on a mattress on the floor. We talked until sunrise. We didn’t need a mountain view for that.”

Maya’s smile softened into something real. She remembered the echo of their voices in the empty room, the scent of paint and cardboard, the feeling of building something from the ground up.

“So, what?” she asked. “We pretend the power’s out?”

“We unplug. We turn off the phones, we light every candle we own, and I’ll make my famously mediocre pasta. We’ll just… talk. No itinerary, no reservations. Just us, marking a decade the same way we started it—figuring it out together.”

Maya looked from the map, with its carefully plotted lines, to Daniel’s face. He was right. The most important mile marker wasn’t a place on any road. It was the quiet, unremarkable Tuesday nights, the shared jokes, the comfort of a hand finding hers in the dark. She folded the map, the crisp paper crinkling with finality.

“Alright,” she said. “You make the pasta. I’ll find the candles.”


The September light was fading outside the kitchen window, casting long shadows across the half-unpacked grocery bags. Leo leaned against the counter, scrolling through his phone with a slight frown. “So, October 12th,” he said, not looking up. “Five years.”

Maya was at the sink, rinsing a head of lettuce with more force than necessary. “I know. I saw the date this morning.” She turned off the water and shook the leaves dry. “I was thinking maybe we just try that new place on Elm? The one with the wood-fired oven. Keep it simple.”

“Simple is fine,” Leo said, but his tone was hesitant. He finally set his phone down. “But it’s not just any year, right? Five feels… substantial. Like we’ve built something.”

She turned to face him, drying her hands on a dishtowel. “We have. A mortgage, a shared Netflix password, a deep and abiding hatred for the upstairs neighbor’s yappy dog. It’s the American dream.” She offered a small, wry smile.

He smiled back, but it faded quickly. “I was thinking we could get out of here. Not just dinner. Maybe a weekend somewhere. Up the coast. Remember that little inn in Rockport we stayed at the first year? The one with the creaky floors and the incredible blueberry pancakes.”

Maya’s expression softened. “I remember. You almost drove us into a ditch trying to find the turnoff.”

“I did not,” he protested. “I was avoiding a squirrel.”

“A very large, stationary squirrel,” she teased. She walked over and leaned against the counter beside him, their shoulders touching. The idea was tempting, a small escape from their routines. But she felt the weight of practicality, a familiar presence in their shared life. “It’s just… the property tax bill is due next month. And we’ve been talking about replacing the water heater before winter.”

Leo sighed, his hand finding hers. “I know. I know. But when do we ever do something just for us anymore? Not for the house, not for work. Just… us.”

She looked at their joined hands, then out the window at the fading light. He had a point. The house was a constant, demanding project. Their conversations often revolved around gutters, grout, and interest rates. Maybe marking five years wasn’t about the money, but about remembering why they’d signed up for all the headaches in the first place.

“Okay,” she said quietly, squeezing his hand. “Let’s do it. Let’s go back to Rockport.”

A slow, genuine smile spread across his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. But you’re in charge of navigation this time. And no saving any squirrels.”


The September light was fading over the kitchen sink as Maya dried a wine glass, its fragility a familiar weight in her hand. On the other side of the counter, Leo was hunched over his laptop, the screen’s glow highlighting the faint lines around his eyes. A silence had settled between them, not uncomfortable, but full of the unspoken question that had been hovering for a week.

“So,” Leo finally said, closing the laptop with a soft click. “Ten years.”

“Ten years,” Maya echoed, placing the glass in the cupboard. She turned, leaning back against the counter. “It feels like both a lifetime and a blink.”

He nodded, running a hand through his hair. “My mom called again. She’s still hoping we’ll change our minds and just elope.”

Maya gave a small, wry smile. “And my sister sent another email about a ‘romantic getaway package’ in the Poconos. Heart-shaped tub included.”

Leo grimaced playfully. “Definitely not.”

They’d spent the last few days batting around ideas. A fancy dinner felt too fleeting. A big party felt like a performance for other people, not for them. They had built a life in this house—the scuffed floor in the hallway, the garden they’d planted together, the quiet Sunday mornings with coffee and the newspaper.

“I was thinking,” Maya began, her gaze drifting to the window overlooking their small backyard. “What about that maple tree? The one we planted our first spring here. It’s huge now.”

Leo’s eyes followed hers. “The one you swore I’d kill with overwatering?”

“That’s the one.” She smiled. “I don’t want to go anywhere. I don’t want to dress up. I want to get a nice bottle of wine, order from that Italian place we love, and have a picnic under that tree. Just us.”

A slow smile spread across Leo’s face, erasing the tension. It was simple, unglamorous, and perfectly them. He stood up and walked over to her, placing his hands on her hips. “We could dig out that old box of photos from college. The one with the terrible haircuts.”

Maya laughed, the sound bright in the quiet kitchen. “You’re on.”

He pulled her into a hug. “It’s a plan, then. Here’s to ten more, under the maple tree.”


The calendar on the refrigerator, a relic of mail-order coupons and grocery lists, showed a small, penciled star on Saturday’s date. Five years. Maya traced the star with her finger as the coffee maker gurgled its last, steamy sigh.

Ben was at the kitchen table, frowning at his laptop. “The flights to Asheville are ridiculous,” he said, not looking up. “And every cabin with a hot tub is booked.”

Maya poured two mugs, sliding one beside his elbow. “What about that inn in the Hudson Valley? The one with the stone fireplace from your screenshots folder?”

He finally glanced at her, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “The one where we’d need a second mortgage for a scone?” He leaned back, rubbing his eyes. “I don’t know. It feels… performative. Like we’re supposed to post a picture of ourselves clinking glasses in front of a mountain to prove we’re still in love.”

Maya sat opposite him, wrapping her hands around her mug. “So what would feel real?”

He was quiet for a moment, his gaze drifting past her to the living room, where their lives had accumulated—the mismatched books on the shelves, the worn spot on the rug where his feet rested while he read, the faint ghost of a wine stain on the arm of the sofa from a night they’d laughed until they cried. “Remember our first apartment? The one with the radiator that sounded like a dying whale?” he asked.

“How could I forget? We’d celebrate by getting that cheap, greasy pizza and eating it on the floor because we couldn’t afford a table.”

A slow smile spread across his face. “Let’s do that.”

“Eat pizza on the floor?” Maya asked, her eyebrows raised.

“No,” he said, closing his laptop. “Let’s just stay here. We’ll cook that ridiculously complicated pasta dish we’ve been talking about. We’ll open the good wine, the one we’re always saving for an occasion. And we’ll turn off our phones and just… be here. In the life we’ve built.”

Maya looked at the calendar star, then back at him. The idea settled over her, warm and comfortable. “That,” she said, “sounds perfect.”