Liam unlocked the apartment door just after six, the familiar scent of Maya’s lavender candle greeting him. She looked up from the couch, laptop still open on her lap. “You’re home early.”

“Traffic was light,” he said, dropping his bag. “And I remembered what day it is.”

Maya closed the laptop. “Three years since that terrible first date at the taco place.” She stood and stretched. “I was thinking we keep it quiet. No restaurant, no crowds.”

“Same page.” Liam loosened his tie. “I already stopped for groceries. Fresh pasta, that pesto you like, and a decent bottle of red.”

Maya smiled and took the bags from him. “You remembered the good cheese too.” She unpacked while he changed into jeans. In the kitchen they moved around each other easily. Maya chopped basil and garlic; Liam boiled water and opened the wine. He poured two glasses and handed her one.

“To us not killing each other after two years of sharing one bathroom,” he said.

She clinked her glass against his. “And to you finally learning to put the cap back on the toothpaste.”

They cooked side by side, trading stories about the early days—how Maya had spilled salsa on his only decent shirt, how Liam had talked too much about his old job. When the pasta was ready they carried plates to the living room. Liam dimmed the lights and queued up the movie they had watched on their second date. Maya tucked her feet under her and leaned against his shoulder.

Halfway through the film they paused it, talking instead about the apartment they hoped to buy someday, the trip they still wanted to take. Nothing dramatic, just the quiet certainty of two people who had chosen each other and kept choosing. By the time the credits rolled they were both half-asleep, plates empty, the city quiet beyond their windows. Liam reached over and turned off the lamp. Maya’s hand found his in the dark and stayed there.


Emily unlocked the apartment door just as David set down two grocery bags on the kitchen counter. They had both finished work early on a Friday in their modest Seattle walk-up, the kind with creaky floors and a view of the Space Needle if you craned your neck from the fire escape. It was the third anniversary of the night they first stayed up talking until dawn after a mutual friend’s barbecue, and they had decided against anything flashy.

“I grabbed the salmon and that sauvignon blanc you like,” David said, unpacking the bags. “Figured we could grill it on the balcony if the rain holds off.”

Emily hung up her coat and smiled, already pulling out the cutting board. “Perfect. I’ll handle the asparagus and the salad. You remember last year we tried that fancy restaurant and spent half the night waiting for the check? This feels better.”

They moved around each other with the easy rhythm of people who had shared the same small kitchen for two years. David seasoned the fish while Emily snapped the ends off the green stalks, both of them talking over the sizzle of olive oil heating in the pan. She asked about his latest project at the architecture firm; he asked how her grant application at the nonprofit was coming. Between sentences they traded quick kisses and the occasional joke about whose turn it was to do the dishes later.

Once the food was on the table they dimmed the lights, put on a playlist of the songs that had been playing the night they became a couple, and sat close on the couch. No grand speeches, just the two of them raising glasses to another year of ordinary evenings that somehow felt like enough. Outside, the rain finally started, tapping the windows while they talked until the bottle was empty and the city lights blurred into something warm and familiar.


Sarah and Michael shared a small apartment in Portland, Oregon, where they had lived together for eighteen months. They were not married, but the date they first met at a mutual friend’s barbecue felt like their own private milestone. That evening they intended to mark it quietly, without restaurants or crowds.

Michael arrived home first, kicking off his shoes and opening the fridge. “I picked up the ingredients for that lemon-herb chicken you always request,” he called as Sarah walked in a few minutes later, grocery bag in hand. She set the bag on the counter and pulled out a bottle of pinot noir and a loaf of crusty bread. “And I grabbed the wine and some greens for a salad. Thought we could keep it simple.”

They moved around each other in the kitchen with the ease of people who had cooked together dozens of times. Michael seasoned the chicken while Sarah washed lettuce and sliced tomatoes. “Remember how we almost burned the first dinner we made?” she said, laughing. He grinned and nodded. “You insisted on high heat. I still can’t believe the smoke alarm didn’t go off.”

Once the chicken was in the oven, they set the small table by the window. Michael lit two candles he had bought on the way home; Sarah dimmed the overhead light and put on a playlist of songs from the year they met. They sat down, poured the wine, and talked about ordinary things—work, a leaky faucet they needed to fix, plans for a weekend hike. After dinner they washed dishes side by side, then settled on the couch with leftover bread and the rest of the wine. No grand speeches, just the comfortable silence of two people who had chosen this ordinary evening together.

The evening stretched easily until they turned in, the candles burned down and the apartment quiet around them.


Sarah pushed open the apartment door after a long day at the marketing firm, kicking off her heels with a sigh. David, who had arrived ten minutes earlier from his engineering job, was already in the kitchen, rinsing vegetables at the sink. He glanced over his shoulder and grinned. "Hey. Happy anniversary—three years since you spilled that latte on me at the café."

Sarah laughed, hanging her bag on the hook. "I still say you walked into it. Anyway, I was thinking we keep it quiet tonight. No restaurants, no crowds. Just us."

David nodded, drying his hands. "Sounds perfect. I picked up salmon and asparagus on the way home. Thought we could cook together, maybe open that bottle of wine we bought last month." He pulled the ingredients from the fridge and set them on the counter.

Sarah joined him, washing her hands. "I'll handle the asparagus if you do the fish. And after dinner, we could watch that documentary we keep postponing. Or just sit on the couch and talk." She chopped the ends off the spears while David seasoned the salmon with lemon and herbs.

They moved around each other easily in the small kitchen, sharing the space without collision. David preheated the oven and slid the tray in. "Remember how nervous I was asking you out that first week? You were so sure of yourself."

Sarah smiled, tossing the asparagus with olive oil. "I was terrified too. I just hid it better. This feels right, though—quiet nights like this."

The oven timer beeped twenty minutes later. They plated the food, poured the wine, and settled at the table by the window overlooking the quiet street. Conversation flowed about work, weekend plans, and old memories. After eating, they moved to the couch, David dimming the lights while Sarah queued the documentary. They leaned into each other, the evening unfolding exactly as they'd hoped: simple, shared, and theirs.


Sarah wiped her hands on a kitchen towel and glanced at the clock. Six-fifteen. David would be home any minute from his late shift at the clinic. She pulled the lasagna from the oven, the cheese bubbling perfectly, and set it on the stove to rest. Three years ago today they had first kissed after a rainy concert in the park, both soaked and laughing. They had lived together in this small Chicago apartment for two of those years, still unmarried, still choosing each other every day.

David pushed through the door, rain still clinging to his jacket. He hung it up, kicked off his shoes, and crossed the room to kiss her temple. “Smells amazing. You didn’t have to cook.”

“I wanted to,” she said, handing him a glass of the red wine they had bought last weekend. “Quiet night. Just us. Anniversary of the start.”

He smiled, the tired lines around his eyes softening. “I picked up that documentary you mentioned, the one about the national parks. And I grabbed those dark chocolates you like.” He set the bag on the counter and began setting the small table they used as both desk and dining space, unfolding the cloth napkins they saved for rare occasions.

Sarah plated the lasagna while he lit two candles. They sat, knees touching under the table, and talked about their days—the difficult patient he had helped, the client she had finally closed a deal with. After dinner they moved to the couch, plates forgotten in the sink. David queued the film. Sarah tucked her feet under his thigh. Halfway through, he paused it to refill their glasses and they ended up talking instead, remembering the concert, the first apartment hunt, the night they decided this was home.

When the credits rolled they stayed there, the city lights flickering through the rain-streaked window, two people who had built something quiet and real.


Emma and Jake shared a two-bedroom apartment in Portland, Oregon, where they had lived together for eighteen months. Unmarried and content with that arrangement, they treated the third anniversary of their first date as something worth marking quietly rather than with a big outing.

That Saturday afternoon Jake came home from his shift at the warehouse and found Emma already at the kitchen table with a notepad. She looked up and said, “I was thinking we stay in. I’ll make the risotto if you handle the salad and pick up that bottle of pinot we like.”

Jake nodded, grabbed his keys, and headed to the grocery store three blocks away. He chose a decent pinot noir, mixed greens, and a loaf of crusty bread, then texted her a photo of the wine so she could confirm it was the right one. Back at the apartment he washed the greens while Emma stirred the risotto, the two of them moving around the small kitchen without getting in each other’s way.

They set the table together, lighting a pair of inexpensive candles Emma had bought the week before. Over dinner they talked about the day they met at a mutual friend’s barbecue, how Jake had spilled beer on her shoes and she had laughed instead of getting angry. After they finished eating they washed the dishes side by side, then settled on the couch with the rest of the wine and an old movie neither of them had seen in years.

Halfway through the film Jake paused it, reached into his jacket pocket, and handed Emma a small envelope. Inside was a handwritten note listing three things he still liked about living with her. She read it, smiled, and pulled a similar note from her own pocket that she had written that morning. They sat together in the quiet apartment, the city sounds faint outside the window, and agreed the evening had turned out exactly as they wanted.


Emily and Michael sat at their kitchen table in their modest two-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of Denver, the late afternoon sun filtering through the blinds. It was the third anniversary of the night they had first met at a mutual friend's barbecue, and they had decided against going out. Both preferred something simple after long weeks at their respective jobs—Emily as a graphic designer, Michael as an accountant.

"I was thinking we could make that risotto we tried last month," Emily said, flipping through a cookbook she had pulled from the shelf. "I already checked; we have arborio rice and some leftover mushrooms."

Michael nodded, standing to rummage in the fridge. "Sounds good. I'll handle the wine pairing. There's a bottle of pinot grigio I picked up yesterday that should work. And maybe we can stream that documentary we bookmarked? The one about national parks."

Emily smiled and joined him at the counter, chopping onions while he measured broth. They moved around each other easily, a rhythm built from two years of sharing the space. Michael stirred the pot as the rice toasted, asking her about a client project that had been stressing her out. She vented briefly, then asked how his team's audit was going. He shrugged and admitted it was behind schedule, but he had blocked off the evening anyway.

Once the risotto simmered, they set the small dining table with mismatched plates and lit a couple of candles Emily found in a drawer. Michael poured the wine. They ate slowly, talking about how their first date had ended with them walking around a park until midnight, neither wanting the conversation to stop.

After dinner, they cleaned up together—Emily washing, Michael drying—then settled on the couch. The documentary played, but they paused it often to share memories or just sit in comfortable silence. By ten, they were both tired but content, planning nothing more than sleep and perhaps leftover risotto for lunch tomorrow.

Word count: 312.


Emma and Liam had shared a modest two-bedroom apartment in Portland for two years, their lives intertwined since the rainy October evening three years earlier when a mutual friend’s potluck turned into their first date. Neither had proposed marriage; they simply liked the life they had built, complete with a grouchy rescue cat named Miso and a shared calendar full of hiking weekends.

That Tuesday, they decided a quiet anniversary at home would suit them better than a crowded restaurant. After work, Emma texted Liam from the grocery store: “Got the salmon and those herbs you like. Also chocolate. Don’t start without me.” Liam replied with a photo of the living room already half-transformed—string lights draped over the bookshelf, two mismatched wine glasses waiting on the coffee table.

When Emma arrived, they cooked side by side in the tiny kitchen. Liam seasoned the fish while Emma chopped vegetables, their shoulders bumping as they moved around each other with practiced ease. “Remember how you burned the pasta that first night?” she teased. He laughed, handing her a spoon to taste the sauce. “And you still came back the next week.”

They ate on the couch, plates balanced on their laps, the cat weaving between them. Conversation drifted from work stories to the trail they planned to hike that weekend. After dinner they dimmed the lights and put on an old movie neither of them had seen in years, pausing now and then to argue playfully about the plot or simply sit in comfortable silence.

Later, Liam washed the dishes while Emma dried. They talked about next year’s trip to the coast, nothing grand, just more time together. When they finally turned in, the apartment felt exactly as it should: lived-in, theirs, and quietly celebrating another year of choosing each other every ordinary day.


Maya unlocked the apartment door just as Liam set down two grocery bags on the kitchen counter. They had been together for three years, living in their two-bedroom place in Portland since month eight, and tonight marked the exact date they first met at a mutual friend's barbecue. No rings, no formal plans beyond staying in.

“I grabbed the salmon and that sauvignon you like,” Liam said, already rinsing the fish. “Thought we’d keep it simple. You still want the roasted asparagus?”

Maya hung her jacket and pulled out a cutting board. “Yeah. I’ll handle the veggies if you start the rice. I clocked out early so we wouldn’t rush.” She chopped steadily while he measured water, the two of them moving around the small kitchen without bumping into each other.

They talked about the day—her design meeting that ran long, his client who finally signed—then drifted to the anniversary itself. Liam recalled how she had spilled lemonade on his shoe that first afternoon and laughed instead of apologizing. Maya remembered he had offered her his extra burger without making a big deal of it. Both smiled at the ordinary details that had somehow stuck.

Dinner came together quickly. They plated the food, poured two modest glasses of wine, and sat at the table by the window. The city lights were just coming on. They ate slowly, trading bites and small stories about the year behind them: the weekend hike that turned into a thunderstorm, the time they assembled the IKEA bookshelf at midnight. Nothing dramatic, just the texture of shared days.

Afterward they washed the dishes together, Maya drying while Liam stacked. Then they settled on the couch with a documentary they had started the week before. Liam’s arm rested along the back of the sofa; Maya tucked her feet under his thigh. The evening stayed quiet, exactly as they had wanted—two people who already knew each other well enough not to need more.


Maya rinsed the last of the dinner plates and stacked them in the drying rack while Alex set two wine glasses on the small kitchen table. They had been together four years to the day, living in the same two-bedroom apartment in Portland since the second year. No rings, no formal plans, just the quiet certainty that they preferred this life to any other.

Alex pulled a bottle of Oregon pinot noir from the fridge and twisted the corkscrew. “I still remember that first night,” he said. “You were wearing that green sweater and talking too fast about your thesis. I thought you were going to bolt.”

Maya laughed, drying her hands on a dish towel. “I almost did. You ordered the most expensive thing on the menu and then admitted you were broke. I figured you were either charming or an idiot.”

“Both,” Alex said, pouring the wine. He handed her a glass. They sat across from each other, the only light coming from the cheap string lights they had hung last Christmas and never taken down.

Maya reached across the table and touched his wrist. “I like that we don’t make a big deal out of it. No reservations, no gifts we can’t afford. Just this.”

Alex nodded. He had picked up a loaf of sourdough and a wedge of cheese on the way home, nothing fancy. They talked about the leaky faucet he still needed to fix and the hike they wanted to take next weekend if the rain held off. Maya described a new project at work; Alex listened, asking questions that showed he had been paying attention for years.

When the wine was gone they moved to the couch, Maya’s feet in Alex’s lap. He rubbed her arches without being asked. Outside, a siren passed and faded. Inside, the apartment felt exactly the right size.

They did not say “I love you” out loud that night. They did not need to. The evening ended the way most of their evenings did: quietly, together, and enough.


Sarah unlocked the front door of their modest two-bedroom house in a quiet Columbus suburb, dropping her keys into the bowl by the entrance. Michael stepped in behind her, hanging his jacket and loosening his tie after a long day at the office. They had lived together for two years now, unmarried but committed, and today marked three years since their first date.

"Happy anniversary," Michael said, pulling her into a hug. "I picked up that wine you like on the way home."

Sarah smiled and kissed him. "Thanks. I was thinking we keep it simple—maybe cook together instead of going out. The restaurant scene feels too loud tonight."

He nodded, already heading to the kitchen. "Sounds perfect. I'll start the pasta if you handle the salad and garlic bread."

They moved around the small kitchen with practiced ease. Michael filled a pot with water and set it to boil, then chopped onions while Sarah rinsed lettuce and sliced tomatoes. They talked about their days—her frustrating meeting at the marketing firm, his successful client call—and laughed about how they'd met at a mutual friend's barbecue, neither expecting it to last this long.

Once the food was ready, they carried plates to the living room coffee table. Michael dimmed the lights and queued up an old movie they both loved. Sarah poured the wine, and they clinked glasses.

"To us," she said.

They ate slowly, sharing bites and memories of early dates, late-night talks, and the decision to move in together. After dinner they lingered on the couch, her head on his shoulder, planning a weekend hike for the next day. It was unremarkable and exactly what they wanted.


David and Emily had shared their two-bedroom apartment in Portland for eighteen months, ever since they decided living together made more sense than splitting rent across town. Today marked three years since their first real conversation at a crowded brewery, the night they both later called the start of everything. They wanted nothing elaborate, just a quiet evening that felt like theirs.

Emily took the lead on dinner. She pulled out the worn recipe card for the mushroom risotto they had first cooked together on a rainy Tuesday and began chopping shallots while David set the table with the mismatched plates they had collected from thrift stores. He opened a bottle of Oregon pinot they had been saving and poured two modest glasses, then dimmed the overhead lights so the string of fairy lights over the kitchen window could take over.

While the rice simmered, they moved around each other easily. David rinsed the salad greens and asked Emily about the client meeting that had run late that afternoon. She described the awkward PowerPoint mishap and they both laughed. She asked how his morning run had gone; he admitted he had cut it short because the rain started again and she teased him for being soft. They traded small stories the way people do when they already know most of the answers but still want to hear them.

After they ate, they left the dishes in the sink and settled on the couch with a blanket. Emily chose an old documentary about national parks they had half-watched before. David pulled her feet into his lap and they talked over the narrator, remembering the weekend they had driven to the coast last spring. Neither mentioned the future or made grand statements. They simply sat together, the rain tapping the windows, content with the ordinary evening they had built.

When the credits rolled they stayed a little longer, quiet and close, already looking forward to the same kind of night next year.


Alex and Jordan pulled into the driveway of their modest two-bedroom rental in Austin just after six, the late-afternoon sun still warm on the Texas pavement. Three years to the day since their first date at that taco truck downtown, and they had decided weeks ago that this anniversary would stay simple. No reservations, no crowds.

Inside, Jordan kicked off her work shoes and headed straight to the kitchen. “I’ve got the salmon marinating,” she said, pulling the dish from the fridge. “You still okay with roasting the asparagus and making that lemon rice?”

Alex nodded, already rolling up his sleeves. “Yeah. I’ll start the rice now so it has time to rest.” He measured the broth, set the pot on the stove, then opened a bottle of the pinot they had picked up the night before. They moved around each other with the easy rhythm of people who had shared this space for eighteen months—unmarried, no rush, just the two of them.

While the rice simmered, they sat at the small kitchen table and talked about the day they met. Jordan remembered how Alex had spilled salsa on his shirt and still asked for her number. Alex recalled the way she had laughed and offered him a napkin instead of pretending not to notice. The memory felt ordinary and perfect.

Dinner came together quickly. They plated the food themselves, carried it to the living-room coffee table, and ate while a quiet playlist played from the speaker. Afterward they washed the dishes side by side, then settled on the couch with the remaining wine. No movie, no phones. Just the two of them, talking about whether they might finally look at houses next spring, still content for now with the life they had built together.

The evening stayed exactly as they had planned: unhurried, theirs.


Sarah and Mark had been living together in their modest two-bedroom apartment in Portland for two years, ever since they decided to take the plunge after dating for a year. Tonight marked the third anniversary of the night they first became a couple, a quiet Tuesday they both preferred to celebrate without fanfare.

Mark glanced up from his laptop at the kitchen table. "I was thinking we could skip the restaurant this year. Just stay in, cook something simple."

Sarah nodded from the couch, setting down her book. "Yeah, that sounds perfect. No crowds, no reservations. What if I make that lemon chicken you like, and you handle the sides?"

"Deal," Mark said, closing the computer. "I'll grab some wine and those olives from the market. We can put on that jazz playlist and eat on the balcony if the rain holds off."

They headed out together after work, walking the few blocks to the neighborhood grocery. Sarah picked out fresh herbs and a bottle of sparkling water while Mark selected a mid-range pinot and a loaf of crusty bread. Back home, they moved around the small kitchen in practiced rhythm. Sarah seasoned the chicken and slid it into the oven. Mark chopped vegetables for a salad and set a pot of rice to simmer.

As the apartment filled with the scent of roasting garlic, they talked about the weekend hike they were planning and whether to finally paint the living room. Sarah dimmed the lights and lit a couple of candles. Mark poured the wine and carried plates to the tiny balcony table.

They sat down as the sky darkened, rain holding off just enough. Sarah raised her glass. "To three years of this."

Mark clinked his against hers. "And whatever comes next." They ate slowly, the city lights flickering below, content in the ordinary evening they had built together.


Sarah and Michael had lived together in their modest two-bedroom apartment in a quiet Ohio suburb for two years, ever since they decided their relationship felt solid enough to share rent and space. Tonight marked the third anniversary of their first date, a rainy evening when they'd met for coffee and talked until the café closed. They wanted something simple, no reservations or crowds.

Michael arrived home first from his shift at the warehouse, kicking off his boots by the door. He found Sarah already in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for a pasta dish they'd both liked since their early days. "I picked up that wine we had last year," he said, setting the bottle on the counter and wrapping an arm around her waist. She leaned into him, smiling. "Perfect. I thought we could eat on the balcony if the weather holds. Then maybe that movie we never finished."

They worked side by side, Sarah stirring the sauce while Michael boiled the water and set the small outdoor table with mismatched plates and a single candle. Conversation flowed easily about their weeks—her latest project at the graphic design firm, his overtime hours. When the pasta was ready, they carried everything outside as the sun dipped low, painting the sky orange.

They ate slowly, toasting with cheap merlot. Michael recounted a funny story from work that made Sarah laugh until she nearly spilled her glass. Afterward, they washed dishes together, then settled on the couch with the movie paused from months ago. Halfway through, Sarah rested her head on his shoulder. "This is exactly what I wanted," she said. Michael squeezed her hand. "Me too. Same time next year?" They stayed like that until the credits rolled, content in the quiet they'd built.

(Word count: 298)


Sarah set her laptop aside on the coffee table and glanced at Mike, who was rinsing dishes at the sink in their small Chicago apartment. "It's been three years today," she said. "Since we first started dating. I thought we could keep it low-key tonight."

Mike shut off the faucet and turned, drying his hands. "Yeah, I was thinking the same. No reservations, no big outing. Just us." He walked over and sat beside her on the couch. "What if we cook that pasta we both like? The one with the garlic and spinach. I can run to the store for the ingredients if you want to pick a movie."

Sarah nodded and pulled up a streaming app on her phone. "Sounds perfect. I'll find something light, maybe that comedy we never finished. And we could eat on the balcony if the weather holds. It's supposed to stay mild."

Mike stood and grabbed his keys from the hook by the door. "I'll get the wine too—the red one from last month. Anything else?"

"Just some bread," Sarah replied, already scrolling. "And maybe ice cream for later."

He left, and she spent the next twenty minutes selecting a film and setting out plates. When Mike returned with two bags, they unpacked together in the kitchen. He chopped onions while she sautéed the spinach, their conversation drifting to the day they met at a mutual friend's barbecue. Mike recalled how she had spilled her drink; Sarah laughed and reminded him of his terrible attempt at grilling.

They cooked side by side, tasting the sauce and adjusting the seasoning. After dinner on the balcony, watching the city lights, they moved inside for the movie, sharing the ice cream straight from the carton. As the credits rolled, Sarah leaned against him. "This was exactly right."

Mike squeezed her hand. "Same time next year?"

They stayed like that, talking quietly until late, two people marking time in the simplest way they knew.


Emily and Michael returned to their modest apartment in Portland after long days at work, the late-autumn rain tapping steadily against the windows. Three years earlier they had met at a bookstore reading and begun dating the same week; tonight they planned to mark the anniversary quietly at home.

Michael hung up his damp jacket and turned to Emily. “I picked up that bottle of Oregon pinot we liked last month. Thought we could cook together and just stay in.”

Emily smiled, already pulling ingredients from the fridge. “Perfect. I’ll handle the risotto if you sear the mushrooms and set the table. No takeout tonight—we actually have time.”

They moved around the small kitchen with practiced ease. Emily stirred arborio rice, adding warm broth a ladle at a time while Michael sautéed cremini mushrooms with garlic and thyme. They talked about the week: her graphic-design deadline, his software-release stress, the neighbor’s new puppy that kept them both up two nights earlier. Every so often one of them would pause to taste the other’s work or steal a quick kiss.

When the food was ready they sat at the tiny table by the window, candles flickering because the overhead light felt too harsh. They clinked glasses and swapped memories of that first date—how Michael had spilled coffee on his shirt, how Emily had pretended not to notice. After dinner they washed dishes side by side, then settled on the couch with the remaining wine and a documentary they had both wanted to see. Emily tucked her feet under Michael’s thigh; he rested his arm along the back of the sofa so she could lean against him. Outside the rain continued, but inside the apartment felt warm and unhurried, exactly the evening they had wanted.


In their modest apartment in Austin, Texas, Maya and Theo sat across from each other at the small kitchen table, notebooks open and coffee mugs in hand. It was the third anniversary of the night they had first stayed up talking until dawn after a mutual friend’s barbecue, and they wanted the evening to feel special without leaving home.

Maya, a 29-year-old nurse, flipped through a recipe app. “Let’s make that lemon-herb chicken we tried last summer,” she said. “I’ll handle the marinade and the salad if you take the potatoes and dessert.”

Theo, 31 and a high-school history teacher, nodded and added items to a shared grocery list on his phone. “I’ll stop at the market after practice. Fresh thyme, a decent bottle of pinot gris, and those chocolate tarts from the bakery you like.” He glanced up. “We could eat on the balcony if the weather holds, then watch the movie we never finished last month.”

They spent the afternoon dividing tasks. Maya prepped vegetables while Theo returned with bags and immediately started peeling potatoes, humming along to the playlist she had queued. They moved around each other easily, tasting the marinade, arguing lightly over how much garlic was too much, and setting the table together with the mismatched plates they had collected over three years of living together.

As dusk settled, they sat outside with the meal they had both cooked, toasting with cheap wine and swapping stories about the early days of their relationship. Later they curled up on the couch, the movie playing while they finished the last of the tarts. Neither needed grand gestures; the quiet evening they had planned and built together felt like enough.


Alex and Jordan shared a modest apartment in Portland, Oregon, where they had lived together for two years after dating for three. Their relationship anniversary fell on a Thursday, and both preferred a quiet night in over any restaurant reservation.

Jordan arrived home first after finishing a remote design shift. He texted Alex, who was still commuting from the hospital: “Got the ingredients. Thinking carbonara and that new season of the nature series?” Alex replied immediately: “Yes. I’ll grab the good olive oil and a bottle of that pinot we like.”

When Alex walked in twenty minutes later, Jordan already had water boiling and pancetta sizzling. Alex set the grocery bag on the counter, kissed Jordan’s cheek, and started chopping parsley while they talked through their days. Jordan described a client revision that had nearly derailed the afternoon; Alex recounted a successful discharge that had made the extra hours worthwhile. Neither complained; they simply traded details the way they always did.

They plated the pasta together, Alex grating extra cheese while Jordan poured wine. They ate at the small kitchen table with the window cracked to let in cool evening air. Afterward they moved to the couch, Jordan queuing the documentary and Alex tucking a blanket around them both. Midway through the episode they paused it to debate whether they should finally adopt a cat, laughing when they realized they had circled the same argument for six months.

The evening stayed simple: no gifts, no grand speeches. They just sat close, finished the bottle, and let the quiet feel like enough. By eleven they were still talking, planning nothing more ambitious than sleeping in the next morning.


Elena pushed open the door to their modest two-bedroom apartment in Denver, dropping her keys into the ceramic bowl on the entry table. Marcus followed close behind, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it next to hers. They had both left work a little early, the late-afternoon light still filtering through the living-room blinds.

“Two years today,” Elena said, turning to him with a tired but genuine smile. “I still can’t believe we made it through that first winter when the heat went out.”

Marcus laughed and pulled her into a quick hug. “You mean when you insisted we stay under every blanket we owned instead of calling the landlord? Yeah, that was us.” He stepped back and glanced toward the kitchen. “I picked up that bottle of pinot we liked last month. Thought we could cook something simple and just stay in.”

Elena nodded, already moving toward the fridge. “Perfect. I’ve got chicken and those vegetables from the farmers’ market. We can do a stir-fry and rice. You handle the rice cooker; I’ll chop.”

They worked side by side at the counter, the familiar rhythm of their shared space settling around them. Marcus measured water and set the cooker, then reached over to steal a slice of bell pepper from Elena’s cutting board. She swatted his hand lightly but smiled.

“Movie after?” he asked. “Something we’ve both been meaning to watch. No phones.”

“Deal. I’ll queue up that documentary you mentioned last week. The one about national parks.” Elena slid the vegetables into the hot pan, the sizzle filling the small kitchen. “We can eat on the couch like we did that first night we officially moved in together.”

Marcus poured two glasses of wine and handed her one. They clinked them softly, no speeches, just a quiet acknowledgment. As the rice finished and the chicken browned, they talked about small things—her upcoming project at the office, his weekend hike plans—until dinner was ready. They carried plates to the living room, dimmed the lights, and settled in, the evening unfolding exactly as they had quietly planned it.


Alex and Jordan had been living together in their modest two-bedroom apartment in Portland for three years. They weren't married, but they marked the anniversary of their first date every year with something simple and private. This year it fell on a Thursday, so they both took the afternoon off work.

Jordan arrived home first and started chopping vegetables for a stir-fry. When Alex walked in carrying a bottle of wine and a small bouquet of sunflowers, Jordan looked up from the cutting board and smiled. "You remembered the flowers," Jordan said.

"Of course," Alex replied, setting the wine on the counter and kissing Jordan's cheek. "I figured we'd keep it low-key. No restaurant, no big plans. Just us."

They cooked side by side. Alex sautéed the tofu while Jordan mixed the sauce and set the table with their everyday dishes instead of the fancy ones. They talked about their weeks—Alex's upcoming project at the design firm, Jordan's long shifts at the hospital—and laughed about the neighbor's cat that kept sneaking onto their balcony.

After dinner they sat on the couch with the leftover wine. Jordan put on a playlist of songs from the year they met. Alex dimmed the lights and they shared stories they already knew by heart: the awkward first date at the coffee shop, the weekend trip to the coast when it rained the whole time, the day they decided to move in together.

Around ten they turned off the music and sat in comfortable silence, Jordan's head on Alex's shoulder. No grand gestures, no speeches. Just the two of them, together, marking another year in the life they had quietly built. They went to bed early, already looking forward to doing it again next year.


Emily and David had shared their two-bedroom apartment in Denver for eighteen months, but tonight marked three years since their first awkward coffee date at a crowded café downtown. They sat at the kitchen island after work, laptops closed, planning a quiet evening that felt earned.

“I don’t want a restaurant,” Emily said, flipping through a worn recipe notebook. “Let’s make that mushroom risotto we always talk about. The one from our second date when you burned the first batch.”

David laughed and pulled up a grocery list on his phone. “Deal. I’ll handle the wine and that chocolate tart from the bakery on Colfax. You pick the playlist. Something low-key, no Taylor Swift ballads this time.”

They drove together to the market, arguing lightly over which Parmesan to buy and whether fresh thyme was worth the extra two dollars. Back home, they moved around the small kitchen with practiced ease. Emily stirred the rice while David chopped shallots, their shoulders bumping as they passed the wooden spoon. The apartment filled with the smell of garlic and simmering broth.

Later they ate at the table they’d found at a yard sale, candles flickering. David raised his glass. “To three years of you putting up with my terrible cooking and worse jokes.”

Emily clinked her glass against his. “And to you finally learning how not to over-salt everything. I still can’t believe we almost didn’t make it past that first date.”

They talked about the early months—missed texts, a disastrous hiking trip, the night they decided to move in together after a leaky ceiling forced them to share a hotel room. No grand declarations, just the comfortable rhythm of two people who had chosen each other again and again. When the tart was gone they washed dishes side by side, music still playing, already looking forward to next year.


In their modest two-bedroom apartment in a quiet Seattle neighborhood, Maya Chen and Liam Torres sat at the kitchen table after work, laptops closed and takeout menus pushed aside. It was the third anniversary of the night they had first kissed on a rainy bus ride home from a mutual friend's party, and they wanted something simple.

Maya, a graphic designer, flipped through a recipe app. "How about that lemon-herb chicken we tried last month? I can handle the marinade if you roast the vegetables."

Liam, who worked in IT support, nodded and stood to check the fridge. "We've got potatoes and carrots. I'll pick up a bottle of that pinot gris you like on my way back from the store. No restaurants, no crowds. Just us."

They divided the tasks without fuss. Maya prepped the chicken while Liam chopped vegetables and set a small table with the mismatched plates they had collected from thrift stores. He dimmed the overhead lights and lit two inexpensive candles from the drawer. Maya queued a playlist of the indie folk songs they had both loved that first year.

As the chicken baked, they sat on the couch with glasses of water, talking about the week. Liam mentioned a frustrating ticket at work; Maya described a client who kept changing fonts. They laughed at the small frustrations and then grew quieter, remembering how they had once argued over whose turn it was to do dishes and how they had learned to compromise.

Dinner came out of the oven golden and fragrant. They ate slowly, sharing bites and planning a weekend hike if the weather held. Afterward they washed the dishes together, Maya washing and Liam drying, then settled back on the couch with a movie they had both wanted to see. No grand gestures, just the easy rhythm of two people who had chosen each other and kept choosing, night after ordinary night.

Word count: 298.


Maya pulled into the driveway of their modest two-bedroom house in suburban Ohio just after six, the late autumn dusk already settling. Liam met her at the door, taking her coat and the grocery bag she’d picked up on the way home. “I figured we’d keep it simple tonight,” he said, setting the bag on the counter. “Three years since that first coffee date. No restaurants, no crowds.”

She smiled and kissed his cheek. “Exactly what I wanted. I even left work a little early.” They moved around the kitchen together, familiar after eighteen months of sharing the space. Maya rinsed the vegetables while Liam uncorked a bottle of the inexpensive red they’d both liked from the start. He chopped onions without being asked; she started the pasta water and told him about a small win at the office. He listened, then recounted a funny moment from his own day at the warehouse.

They cooked side by side, trading the wooden spoon and tasting the sauce as it simmered. Conversation drifted naturally to the beginning—how they’d both been late that first afternoon, how the café had been too loud, how neither had expected much. Liam admitted he’d almost canceled. Maya confessed she’d worn her most comfortable sweater on purpose, testing whether he’d notice. They laughed at the memory.

When the meal was ready they ate at the small table by the window instead of in front of the television. Afterward they washed the dishes together, then settled on the couch with the rest of the wine. Liam put on the playlist from that first year. Maya rested her head on his shoulder. They didn’t need grand gestures. The quiet evening—shared cooking, easy talk, the same old house—felt like the right way to mark another year of simply choosing each other.


In their modest two-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of Denver, Emily Chen and Marcus Hale finished their workdays and met in the kitchen, still in casual clothes from home offices. They had lived together for two years, unmarried but committed, and tonight marked the fourth anniversary of their first date.

Emily pulled a recipe card from the drawer. “I thought we’d make that Thai basil stir-fry we had on our first night out,” she said, already chopping garlic. Marcus nodded and opened the fridge, grabbing chicken and vegetables they had bought that morning. “I’ll handle the rice and the sauce. You always over-salt it.” He smiled as he measured fish sauce and lime juice, tasting as he went.

They moved around each other easily. Emily sautéed the chicken while Marcus set the small dining table with the mismatched plates they had collected from thrift stores. He lit two candles and poured sparkling water into wine glasses. “No alcohol tonight,” he said. “I want us both clear-headed.” Emily agreed, adding basil at the last minute so the kitchen filled with its sharp, sweet scent.

They sat down and ate slowly, talking about the day—her client presentation, his coding deadline—then drifted to memories of that first date: the cheap restaurant, the rain, how neither wanted the evening to end. After dinner they washed dishes together, Emily washing and Marcus drying, then settled on the couch with a documentary they had queued earlier. Marcus pulled a blanket over both of them. Emily leaned against his shoulder.

The city lights glowed faintly through the blinds. They did not need fireworks or reservations. The quiet evening, planned and shared equally, felt like enough.


Emily unlocked the door to their two-bedroom apartment in a quiet Chicago suburb, balancing a grocery bag on her hip. Mark was already inside, kicking off his work shoes by the couch. “Hey,” he said, crossing the room to take the bag from her. “I picked up that bottle of wine we liked last month. Thought we could keep it simple tonight.”

She smiled and hung up her coat. They had started dating three years ago after meeting at a mutual friend’s barbecue, and this date always felt more personal than any wedding anniversary they might have someday. Living together for the past two years had only made the small rituals matter more.

In the kitchen they moved around each other easily. Emily rinsed vegetables while Mark chopped onions, both of them talking about their days without rushing. “I was thinking we skip the restaurant,” she said, glancing over. “Just cook, maybe put on that playlist from our first trip together.”

Mark nodded, sliding the onions into a pan. “Perfect. I’ll handle the pasta if you do the salad. We can eat on the balcony if it’s not too chilly.” He reached for the wine and poured two modest glasses.

They cooked side by side, tasting the sauce and adjusting the seasoning together. When dinner was ready they carried plates outside, the city lights distant below them. Conversation drifted from work stories to memories of that first awkward date, both of them laughing at how nervous they had been.

Afterward they washed dishes in companionable silence, then settled on the couch with the leftover wine. Emily leaned against Mark’s shoulder as they queued up an old movie neither had seen in years. No grand gestures, just the two of them choosing an ordinary evening and making it theirs.

Word count: 298.


Alex and Jordan had shared their modest two-bedroom apartment in a quiet Chicago suburb for three years. Unmarried and content with their arrangement, they marked the anniversary of their first date—the night they'd met at a neighborhood bookstore—with a low-key evening at home.

After work, Alex arrived first and started prepping dinner. He chopped vegetables for a simple stir-fry, the kind Jordan always said tasted better when he made it. Jordan walked in twenty minutes later, kicking off her shoes and heading straight to the kitchen. "Smells good already," she said, wrapping an arm around his waist. "I picked up that wine we liked last month. Thought we could skip the fancy restaurant this year."

Alex nodded, stirring the pan. "Perfect. I was thinking we could eat on the couch, put on that documentary we never finished. Nothing loud." He paused to glance at her. "You still good with that? I know some people go big for these things."

Jordan smiled and set the table with their everyday plates instead of the special ones. "This is us. Quiet's better. Remember how we talked for hours that first night? No pressure, just... us." She lit a couple of candles from the drawer, the only decoration they bothered with.

They cooked together after that, Jordan handling the rice while Alex finished the sauce. Conversation flowed easily—work stories, a funny thing their neighbor had done, plans for a weekend hike. When the food was ready, they settled on the sofa, plates in laps, the city lights faint through the window.

As they ate, Jordan reached for Alex's hand. "Four years since that bookstore. Feels right, staying in." He squeezed back. "Yeah. No need to go anywhere else." They finished the meal, watched the documentary, and talked until late, the evening unfolding exactly as they'd planned it—simple, shared, and theirs.


Sarah and Mike shared a modest two-bedroom apartment in a quiet Seattle neighborhood, where the rain often pattered against the windows like a familiar soundtrack. Unmarried but committed for three years, they had marked the date they first met at a coffee shop as their unofficial anniversary. That evening, they decided to stay in and celebrate simply.

Sarah, a graphic designer who worked from home, closed her laptop and stretched. “Let’s make it special but low-key,” she said, pulling out a worn recipe card for homemade pasta. “I’ll handle the sauce if you grate the cheese and set the table.”

Mike, an electrician who had just finished a long shift, nodded and washed his hands. “Sounds perfect. I’ll pick a playlist of those old jazz songs we both like, and maybe we can light those candles we bought last month.” He rummaged through the cupboard, finding a bottle of red wine they had been saving. “We can toast to three years of not killing each other over whose turn it is to do dishes.”

They moved around the small kitchen in easy rhythm. Sarah chopped onions and garlic, her eyes watering as she laughed at Mike’s attempt to fold napkins into something resembling swans. He hummed along to the music, stirring the pot when she asked, then dimmed the lights and poured two glasses.

Over dinner at their tiny table, they talked about the early days—how Mike had spilled coffee on her sketchbook that first meeting, and how she had still given him her number. Afterward, they curled up on the couch with a blanket, watching a favorite documentary while sharing a bowl of ice cream. No grand gestures, just the comfort of being together, planning nothing more than another year of the same quiet evenings.

(Word count: 298)


Emma and Jake had lived together for two years in their modest two-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of Denver. Unmarried but committed, they marked the anniversary of their first date with simple rituals rather than grand gestures. That Thursday evening, as winter dusk settled early, they sat at the kitchen table with notebooks and takeout menus spread between them.

Jake, a software engineer who worked remotely, tapped his pen. “I was thinking we stay in completely. I’ll cook that pasta you like, the one with the roasted garlic and spinach. We can open the bottle of wine we bought last month.” He looked up, waiting for her reaction.

Emma, a high school teacher who had just finished grading papers, smiled and leaned forward. “That sounds perfect. Quiet is exactly what I want. No restaurants, no crowds. After dinner we could put on that documentary about national parks we’ve been meaning to watch. Or just talk. I found the old photos from our first hike together.” She reached across and squeezed his hand.

They spent the next half hour refining the plan. Jake listed ingredients he already had and what he needed to pick up on the way home from a short errand. Emma suggested they dim the lights, light the two candles they kept for special nights, and leave their phones in the other room. She offered to handle dessert—simple chocolate mousse she could whip up while he cooked.

By the time they finished, the outline felt complete: grocery stop, cooking side by side, a shared meal at the small table by the window, then the living-room couch with a blanket. No guests, no schedule beyond enjoying each other’s company.

Jake stood and kissed the top of her head. “I’ll grab the groceries now so we’re not rushing later.” Emma nodded, already clearing the table and pulling out mixing bowls. Their evening would be ordinary by most standards, yet it belonged entirely to them.


Emily unlocked the apartment door in their modest Chicago suburb, dropping her keys into the bowl by the entrance. David was already in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, rinsing vegetables at the sink. They had been together three years to the day, living together for the last two, and both had quietly agreed that a loud restaurant or crowded bar felt wrong for the occasion.

“I picked up that bottle of pinot we liked last month,” David said, turning as she hung her coat. “And I thought we could make the mushroom risotto together. Nothing fancy, just us.”

Emily smiled and joined him at the counter, pulling a cutting board closer. “Perfect. I’ll chop the onions if you handle the broth. After dinner we can put on that old documentary we never finished—the one about the national parks. Low lights, no phones.”

They moved in easy rhythm. David measured rice while Emily diced, their conversation drifting between work stories and small plans for the weekend. She reminded him they still needed to schedule the oil change; he mentioned the farmer’s market on Saturday. Nothing dramatic, just the ordinary texture of a shared life.

Once the risotto simmered, they set the small table by the window, lighting two candles they kept for evenings like this. David poured the wine. Emily dimmed the overheads. They sat, plates steaming, and raised their glasses without a speech.

“Three years,” she said simply.

“And still here,” he answered.

They ate slowly, talking about the first cramped studio they had rented and how much quieter this place felt. After the dishes, they settled on the couch with the documentary playing softly. Emily leaned against him; David rested an arm around her shoulders. Outside, traffic hummed past, but inside it was just the two of them, marking the day the way they preferred—quietly, together, and on their own terms.


Alex and Jordan had been living together in their modest two-bedroom apartment in Portland for three years. Tonight marked the fifth anniversary of their first date, a rainy afternoon coffee that had somehow stretched into forever. Neither had mentioned marriage, but the quiet rhythm of shared rent, grocery lists, and Sunday mornings felt like enough.

Jordan stood at the kitchen counter chopping vegetables for a simple pasta primavera, the scent of garlic already filling the small space. “I found that bottle of pinot we bought last summer,” Alex said, emerging from the hallway closet with the wine and two mismatched glasses. “Thought we could skip the fancy restaurant and just stay in. You okay with that?”

“More than okay.” Jordan smiled, sliding the knife aside and wiping hands on a dish towel. “I already queued up that documentary you mentioned, the one about the national parks. We can eat on the couch if you want.”

Alex set the glasses down and wrapped arms around Jordan from behind, resting a chin on a shoulder. “Sounds perfect. I’ll set the table—well, the coffee table. You keep cooking. I burned the last batch of garlic bread, remember?”

They moved easily around each other in the galley kitchen. Jordan stirred the sauce while Alex arranged napkins and lit a single candle they kept for power outages. Conversation drifted from work stories to a weekend hike they hoped to take if the weather held. When the pasta was ready, they carried plates to the living room, settled side by side, and clinked glasses.

“Five years,” Jordan said quietly. “Still feels new sometimes.”

Alex nodded, passing the pepper. “Yeah. Here’s to whatever comes next.” They ate slowly, the documentary playing in the background, the city lights flickering beyond the window. No grand gestures, just the comfortable weight of another ordinary evening that felt, to both of them, exactly right.


David wiped his hands on a kitchen towel and glanced at the clock on the microwave. Six-thirty. Emily would be home any minute from her late shift at the clinic. He pulled two steaks from the fridge, the ones they’d picked up together that morning at the farmer’s market downtown, and laid them on the counter to come to room temperature. They’d decided last week that this anniversary—the fifth since the rainy Tuesday they’d first kissed after a terrible movie—deserved something simple: just the two of them, no restaurant noise, no friends.

Emily’s key turned in the lock. She stepped inside, kicked off her sneakers, and dropped her bag by the door. “Smells like garlic already,” she said, crossing the living room to wrap her arms around David from behind. He leaned back into her, still stirring the marinade.

“I figured we’d start early. You want to handle the salad while I get these on the grill?”

“Deal.” She washed her hands, then pulled romaine and cherry tomatoes from the crisper. They moved around each other easily in the small kitchen of their two-bedroom apartment, the one they’d signed the lease on three years ago after deciding renting separately was just throwing money away. Emily chopped while David seasoned, both of them talking over the sizzle that started when the steaks hit the hot pan.

“Remember that first night?” she asked, glancing up. “You spilled wine on my only decent shirt.”

David laughed. “And you still let me walk you home. I thought I was done for.”

They plated the food, carried it to the small table by the window that looked out over the quiet street. A cheap bottle of red sat between them, the same kind they’d shared that first evening. Emily poured. David raised his glass.

“To five years of not quite figuring it out, but not wanting to stop trying.”

She clinked hers against his. They ate slowly, talking about the week, about maybe taking a weekend trip next month if their schedules lined up. After dinner they washed dishes side by side, then settled on the couch with the lights low. No movie tonight. Just the two of them, the city humming faintly outside, and the easy silence that had become their favorite kind of celebration.


Alex unlocked the apartment door just after six, the Chicago wind still clinging to his jacket. Jordan was already home, kicking off her shoes by the couch and scrolling through takeout options on her phone.

“Anniversary night,” she said without looking up. “We said we’d keep it quiet. You still good with that?”

Alex dropped his bag and hung up his coat. “Yeah. I’m beat from the warehouse anyway. Let’s just stay in. I can grill those steaks we bought last weekend if you want to handle the salad and potatoes.”

Jordan stood, stretched, and walked into the kitchen. “Deal. I’ll start the potatoes now so they’re ready when you fire up the grill. You remember the first night we actually talked? That diner on Halsted, both of us waiting for tables that never came.”

Alex followed her, pulling the steaks from the fridge. “You were reading some thick book and I asked if it was any good just to have an excuse. You told me the plot in five minutes and then asked what I did for work. I thought you were just being polite.”

Jordan laughed and started peeling potatoes at the sink. “I wasn’t. I liked your voice. Still do.” She handed him a cutting board. “Chop the onions for the salad while I get these boiling. Then we can pick a movie. Something neither of us has seen, no arguments.”

They moved around each other easily in the small kitchen. Alex seasoned the meat and stepped onto the tiny balcony to start the grill. Jordan set the table with the decent plates they usually saved for guests, then joined him outside with two beers.

“Five years,” she said, clinking her bottle against his. “Still feels like we just decided to try living together to save rent.”

Alex flipped the steaks. “Best decision we ever made. Even when the heat goes out in January.”

They ate at the table by the window, talking about the diner, the first cramped apartment, the time they got lost driving to her sister’s wedding. After dinner they washed dishes together, then settled on the couch with a low-budget sci-fi film neither had heard of. Jordan leaned against his shoulder. Alex put his arm around her. The city lights blinked outside, but inside it was just the two of them, quiet and content.


Alex and Jordan had been living together in their modest two-bedroom apartment in Portland for three years, ever since they decided the daily commute between their old places was eating too much of their time. Neither had brought up marriage; they both liked the way things were, unhurried and theirs.

On a Thursday afternoon in late October, Jordan came home from the clinic where he worked as a physical therapist and found Alex already in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, chopping vegetables. “Anniversary of our first real date,” Alex said without looking up. “Six years. I thought we could stay in. Nothing fancy.”

Jordan set his bag down and washed his hands. “I was thinking the same thing. I picked up that bottle of Oregon pinot we liked last month. And I can handle the salmon if you want to do the risotto.”

Alex nodded, sliding the cutting board toward him. “Deal. After dinner maybe we just put on that documentary we never finished and actually talk instead of scrolling.”

They moved around each other easily, the way people do when the space has become shared muscle memory. Jordan seasoned the fish while Alex stirred the rice, both of them adding small comments—Jordan reminding Alex how they’d almost missed the restaurant that first night because of a wrong turn, Alex laughing about the terrible movie they’d seen afterward just to have an excuse to stay out later.

By seven the table was set with the good plates they rarely used. They ate slowly, trading stories about the year that had just passed: Jordan’s promotion, Alex’s freelance illustration gig finally paying the bills. When the dishes were done they settled on the couch, the documentary playing low. Jordan reached for Alex’s hand without thinking. Outside, rain started against the windows. Inside, it was quiet enough to hear each other breathe.

They didn’t need more than that.


Alex pulled into the driveway of their small ranch house in suburban Ohio just as the sun dipped below the trees. Three years to the day since they'd met at a community potluck, and two years since they'd signed the lease together. No rings, no formal promises—just the easy rhythm of shared bills and morning coffee. He grabbed the grocery bag from the passenger seat and headed inside.

Jordan was already in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, rinsing tomatoes at the sink. She turned when the door clicked. "Perfect timing. I figured homemade pizza and that documentary we never finished. Sound okay?"

"Better than okay." Alex set the bag down and pulled out fresh mozzarella and basil. "I grabbed the good olive oil too. You start the dough, I'll handle the sauce?"

They moved around each other without collision, the kind of coordination that comes from hundreds of ordinary evenings. Jordan mixed flour and yeast, kneading while she talked about her afternoon meeting. Alex chopped garlic, listening, then added his own story about a coworker who’d asked if they were “officially” celebrating. They both laughed.

By seven they had two pizzas in the oven and a cheap bottle of red open on the counter. Jordan lit a couple of unscented candles—nothing fancy—and they sat at the small table by the window. Steam rose from the slices. They toasted with mismatched glasses.

“Remember the first night we cooked together?” Alex said. “You burned the garlic and I pretended it was supposed to be like that.”

Jordan grinned. “You were terrible at pretending. Still are.” She reached across and squeezed his hand. “This is nicer. No pressure, no reservations.”

They ate slowly, trading bites and quiet updates about work, the leaky faucet they still needed to fix, the hike they wanted to take next weekend. When the pizzas were gone they moved to the couch, documentary playing low. Jordan tucked her feet under Alex’s thigh. He absently traced circles on her ankle.

Outside, a neighbor’s dog barked once and went quiet. Inside, the house felt exactly like theirs. No grand gestures, just two people who had chosen this ordinary night together, again.


Michael and Sarah had been living together in their modest two-bedroom apartment in Portland, Oregon, for just over two years. They weren't married, but the anniversary of the night they first became a couple—three years ago this Saturday—felt just as meaningful. Both had the weekend off from their jobs, Michael as a graphic designer and Sarah as a nurse, so they decided on a quiet evening at home rather than going out.

That Friday after work, they sat at the kitchen table with takeout coffee and started planning. Michael suggested they cook together instead of ordering in. “I can handle the pasta if you do the salad and that garlic bread you make,” he said, flipping through a recipe on his phone. Sarah nodded, already listing ingredients. “We’ll need fresh basil and those tomatoes from the market. I’ll pick them up tomorrow morning while you vacuum and set the table.”

The next day they moved through the apartment with easy coordination. Sarah returned from the store with bags of groceries and a small bouquet of sunflowers. Michael had already cleared the living room, dimmed the lights, and queued up a playlist of songs from the year they met. In the kitchen they worked side by side, trading the cutting board and tasting the sauce. Michael stirred the pot while Sarah chopped vegetables, both of them laughing when he nearly burned the garlic.

By evening the table was set with mismatched plates and the flowers in a mason jar. They ate slowly, talking about the first date that had stretched until 2 a.m. and how they’d known almost immediately. After dinner they washed dishes together, then settled on the couch with a movie they’d both seen before. Halfway through, Sarah leaned her head on Michael’s shoulder and he wrapped an arm around her. No grand gestures, just the comfortable rhythm of two people who had chosen each other and kept choosing, one quiet evening at a time.


David and Lena had shared the two-bedroom apartment in Denver for two years, ever since they decided living together made more sense than splitting rent on separate places. Tonight marked three years since their first real date, the one that had stretched from coffee into a walk along the river and then dinner neither wanted to end. They wanted something quiet to mark it.

Lena stood at the stove stirring a simple tomato sauce she had started from canned tomatoes and garlic. “I figured we’d skip the crowded places,” she said. “Just cook here and maybe put on that documentary we never finished.”

David nodded from the small dining table where he was folding cloth napkins they rarely used. “I already grabbed a bottle of that red you like and some dark chocolate. The good kind, not the grocery-store stuff.” He had walked to the wine shop after work, choosing something mid-range they could actually enjoy without pretending it was a special occasion.

They moved around each other easily. Lena drained the pasta while David set two plates and poured the wine. He dimmed the overhead light and lit the single candle they kept for power outages. Over dinner they talked about the early days—how nervous he had been, how she had almost canceled because her car wouldn’t start. They laughed at the memory of the cheap diner they ended up in instead of the place they had planned.

After they finished eating, Lena washed the dishes while David dried. They carried the remaining wine to the couch, put the documentary on low, and sat close without needing to fill every silence. The evening stayed exactly as they had wanted it: unhurried, theirs, and enough.


Alex and Jordan had shared their modest two-bedroom apartment in a quiet Denver suburb for three years, ever since they'd decided living together made more sense than splitting rent across town. Unmarried and content with that, they treated the anniversary of their first date like a private holiday, nothing flashy.

That Friday evening, Alex walked in first, dropping keys on the counter and loosening a tie. "Hey, we still on for something low-key tonight?" Jordan looked up from the couch, closing a laptop. "Absolutely. I already picked up that bottle of wine we liked last month and some steaks. Figured we could grill them on the balcony if the weather holds."

Alex smiled and started unpacking groceries Jordan had missed. "Perfect. I'll handle the marinade—got the recipe from that place we went last summer. You want to pick the movie? Something we both haven't seen, or we could just put on that playlist and talk."

Jordan stood, stretching, and joined Alex in the kitchen, chopping vegetables while they discussed details. "Talk sounds better. Remember how we spent that first night walking around downtown until two in the morning? No plans, just figuring each other out." Alex nodded, mixing spices. "Yeah. Let's recreate a bit of that—no phones, just us. I'll set up the fairy lights on the balcony after dinner."

They moved around each other easily, Jordan seasoning the steaks while Alex prepped sides. After grilling, they sat outside with plates and wine as the sun set, sharing stories from the past year—Jordan's promotion, Alex's family visit—and laughing over old photos on a shared album. The evening stayed simple: good food, easy conversation, and the comfort of knowing tomorrow they'd still be right here, building the same quiet life. By the time they headed inside, both felt the anniversary had landed exactly right.


In their small apartment in Austin, Texas, Maya and Liam, who had lived together unmarried for eighteen months, marked the second anniversary of their first date with plans for a quiet night in. Maya, a nurse finishing a long shift, texted Liam from the bus: “Home in twenty. Let’s keep it simple—your chili and that playlist from our road trip?”

Liam, already home from his teaching job, replied that he would handle the rest. He browned the beef, diced onions, and simmered the pot while setting two mismatched plates on the coffee table. When Maya walked in, he met her at the door with a glass of iced tea. “Sit. I’ve got this.”

She kicked off her shoes and helped anyway, stirring the pot while he sliced avocado. “Remember that first date?” she said. “You spilled coffee on my sketchbook and then spent an hour trying to blot it dry.”

Liam laughed, adding cumin. “You still kept the page. Said it added character.” They carried bowls to the couch, lit a single candle Maya had bought on sale, and queued the playlist. Between bites they traded stories: the weekend they assembled their IKEA bookshelf in silence after a fight, the night they stayed up mapping a future hike in Colorado.

Maya leaned against him as the last song faded. “This is better than any restaurant.” Liam nodded, already thinking about breakfast the next morning. They washed dishes together, then sat on the balcony watching the city lights, content with the evening they had built side by side.


Sarah and David shared a two-bedroom apartment in a quiet neighborhood of Austin, Texas. They had moved in together two years earlier after dating for three. Tomorrow would mark the fifth anniversary of the night they first met at a mutual friend's barbecue.

David came home from his shift at the hardware store and found Sarah already in the kitchen, rinsing vegetables. He set his keys on the counter and kissed her cheek. "I was thinking we keep it simple tomorrow," he said. "No restaurant, no big plans. Just us."

Sarah nodded, turning off the faucet. "I like that. We could cook together. Remember that lemon chicken we made last winter? We could do that again, with roasted potatoes."

David opened the fridge and checked what they already had. "We've got chicken thighs and some lemons. I'll pick up fresh rosemary and a decent bottle of white wine on my way home. Maybe that pinot gris we liked."

Sarah wiped her hands and pulled out her phone. "I'll make a playlist of the songs that were playing the night we met. And we can eat on the balcony if the weather holds. Just candles and the string lights."

David smiled and wrapped an arm around her waist. "Perfect. After dinner we can look through those old photos on the laptop. The ones from the first few months."

They spent the next twenty minutes dividing the remaining tasks. Sarah would handle the salad and set the table. David would manage the grill and choose a movie they both remembered from that first year, something light they could talk through.

As they finished planning, Sarah leaned against him. "Five years. Feels like it went by fast."

David squeezed her shoulder. "Yeah. Quiet night sounds exactly right."

They stood together in the small kitchen a moment longer, already looking forward to the evening they had just shaped.


Sarah pulled her coat tighter against the Chicago wind as she unlocked the apartment door, grocery bags rustling in her arms. Mike was already inside, sleeves rolled up, chopping onions at the kitchen counter. The small two-bedroom they shared in Lincoln Park smelled of garlic and the faint pine of the candle he’d lit earlier.

“Anniversary dinner starts now,” he said without looking up, grinning. “I figured homemade carbonara beats takeout. You still okay with that?”

Sarah set the bags down and kissed his cheek. “Perfect. I grabbed that bottle of Chianti we liked last month and the good parmesan. Also, I found the photo from our first date at the diner. Thought we could put it on the table.”

They moved around each other easily, the way they had for three years of living together. Mike stirred the pasta while Sarah grated cheese and set two mismatched plates on the small table by the window. Outside, streetlights flickered on. No big restaurant reservation, no crowd—just the two of them marking the night they’d first decided this was more than casual.

“Remember how nervous I was that night?” Mike asked, pouring wine. “I spilled coffee on my shirt and you still said yes to a second date.”

Sarah laughed, handing him the photo. “You were trying so hard. I liked that.” She dimmed the overhead light so the candle glowed between them. They ate slowly, talking about the week—her grant application, his upcoming project deadline—then settled on the couch with leftover wine and the movie they’d first watched together, some forgettable comedy that now felt like theirs.

Halfway through, Sarah rested her head on his shoulder. Mike reached for her hand. The city hummed outside, but inside it was quiet, exactly as they’d planned. No one else needed to know it was their anniversary. It was enough that they did.


Sarah and Mike shared a two-bedroom apartment in a quiet neighborhood of Austin, Texas. They had moved in together eighteen months earlier, after dating for a year. Today marked the third anniversary of the evening they first met at a mutual friend’s barbecue.

Mike closed his laptop and stretched. “We should keep it simple tonight,” he said. “No restaurants, no crowds.”

Sarah looked up from the grocery list she had started on her phone. “I was thinking the same thing. Let’s cook that pasta you like, the one with the roasted tomatoes and basil. I’ll handle the sauce if you take care of the garlic bread.”

They drove to the nearby market together. Mike picked out a bottle of red wine while Sarah selected fresh herbs and a loaf of crusty bread. Back home, they worked side by side in the small kitchen. Sarah chopped onions and stirred the simmering sauce; Mike sliced the bread, rubbed it with garlic, and slid it into the oven. They talked about the first night they met—how Sarah had spilled her drink and Mike had helped her clean it up, how they had ended up talking until midnight on the back porch.

After dinner they sat on the couch with the leftover wine. Mike put on a playlist of songs from the year they started dating. Sarah rested her head on his shoulder and they traded stories about the small moments that had followed: the weekend trip to the coast, the time they got lost hiking, the quiet Sunday mornings that had become their favorite ritual.

They decided against a movie. Instead they stayed where they were, talking until the wine was gone and the apartment grew dark. Both of them felt the evening had been exactly what they wanted—an unhurried reminder of why they had chosen this life together.


David and Emily had shared a two-bedroom apartment in Portland for three years. Their relationship had begun on a rainy October evening when they met at a mutual friend’s potluck, and they marked that date each year with something simple. This year the anniversary fell on a Thursday, so they decided against going out.

Emily sat at the kitchen table scrolling through recipes on her laptop while David unloaded the dishwasher. “I was thinking we stay in,” she said. “I can make that mushroom risotto you like, and we open the bottle of pinot we’ve been saving.”

David closed the cabinet and leaned against the counter. “Sounds perfect. I’ll handle the salad and set up the living room. We can put on that documentary about national parks we never finished.” He paused, then added, “Maybe we light a couple of candles, nothing fancy.”

They spent the next hour dividing tasks. Emily chopped onions and stirred the risotto, tasting as she went and adjusting the seasoning. David washed lettuce, sliced cucumbers, and arranged a small plate of cheese and crackers. He dimmed the overhead lights, lit two unscented candles on the coffee table, and queued the documentary on the television.

When the risotto was ready they carried their plates to the couch. They ate slowly, talking about the first months they dated—the awkward coffee dates, the weekend hike that got them lost, the night they decided to move in together. Emily laughed when David recalled how she had burned the first dinner she cooked for him. He reached over and squeezed her hand.

After they finished eating they left the dishes in the sink and settled back against the cushions. The documentary played quietly. Outside, rain tapped against the windows. They sat close, not needing to fill every silence, simply enjoying the ordinary evening they had planned together.


Alex and Jordan pulled into the driveway of their modest two-bedroom house in Portland just after six, the late-spring rain still pattering on the windshield. They’d been together three years to the day, ever since a mutual friend’s barbecue where they’d lingered over cheap beer and talked until the fire pit burned down. Neither had ever felt the need for a ring or a ceremony; the lease they’d signed last fall felt more binding than any piece of paper.

Inside, Jordan kicked off wet sneakers and started unpacking the grocery bags while Alex rummaged through the fridge. “I grabbed that bottle of pinot you like,” Jordan said, setting the wine on the counter. “And the stuff for risotto. Thought we could cook together instead of ordering in.”

Alex smiled, already chopping shallots. “Perfect. I’ll handle the mushrooms if you stir. Remember that first night we tried this recipe? We almost set off the smoke alarm.”

They moved around the small kitchen in easy rhythm, trading stories about the day—Jordan’s frustrating client call, Alex’s successful pitch at the design firm. The risotto came together slowly, steam fogging the window. Once it was plated, they carried bowls and glasses to the couch, the only light coming from the string of fairy lights they’d hung last winter.

Jordan queued up the same indie documentary they’d watched on their first official date. Halfway through, Alex paused it to refill glasses and rest a hand on Jordan’s knee. “Three years,” Alex said quietly. “Still feels like we just started figuring this out.”

Jordan leaned in, clinking glasses. “And we’ve got the rest of the night. No plans, no people. Just us.” They finished the movie, then sat talking until the wine was gone, the rain still falling outside, two lives already comfortably intertwined.


Sarah and Michael had shared their two-bedroom apartment in a quiet Chicago neighborhood for nearly two years. On a mild October evening, they sat at the kitchen table after work, planning a low-key celebration of the day they first met three years earlier at a mutual friend’s barbecue.

Michael leaned back in his chair and suggested they skip restaurants entirely. “Let’s cook that lemon-herb chicken you like, the one with roasted potatoes. I’ll handle the chicken if you do the sides.” Sarah smiled and nodded, already opening a recipe app on her phone. “Deal. I’ll pick up the fresh thyme and a decent bottle of pinot noir on my way home tomorrow. We can eat on the balcony if the weather holds.”

They spent the next twenty minutes dividing tasks. Michael checked the cupboard and listed what they already had: olive oil, garlic, and the cast-iron skillet. Sarah added a simple salad and her homemade vinaigrette to the menu. She also proposed they stream the documentary they’d started last weekend instead of anything new. Michael agreed, saying he’d queue it up after they cleaned the kitchen together.

The next day they followed the plan without fuss. Michael arrived home first, seasoned the chicken, and started roasting the potatoes. Sarah walked in carrying groceries, set the wine on the counter, and immediately began chopping vegetables while they talked about their days. She asked about his meeting; he asked about her presentation. They moved around each other easily, tasting the sauce, adjusting the oven temperature, and laughing when Michael nearly dropped a potato.

By seven they sat on the small balcony with plates on their laps, city lights flickering below. They clinked glasses, toasted the anniversary, and ate slowly while the documentary played softly from the living-room speaker. Neither mentioned grand gestures. They simply enjoyed the food they had made, the conversation that came easily, and the ordinary comfort of being together. After dinner they washed the dishes side by side, then settled on the couch, content with the quiet evening they had chosen.


Emily and David shared a modest two-bedroom apartment in a quiet suburb of Denver. After five years together, they still marked the date they first met at a mutual friend's barbecue with a low-key evening at home. That Thursday they both finished work early, determined to keep things simple.

David arrived first and started chopping vegetables for the pasta they always made on special nights. Emily walked in carrying a bottle of red wine and a loaf of crusty bread. "I grabbed the good stuff," she said, setting the bag on the counter. "No takeout tonight."

They moved around the small kitchen in easy rhythm. David sautéed garlic while Emily grated Parmesan and told him about a funny email from her sister. He laughed and asked her to taste the sauce, then suggested they eat on the couch instead of the table so they could put their feet up. Emily agreed and dimmed the lights, lighting two candles they kept for occasions like this.

Once the plates were filled they sat close, glasses in hand. David raised his. "To the day you spilled beer on my shirt and still got my number." Emily clinked her glass against his. "And to you pretending it was no big deal." They talked about that first awkward date, the cramped studio they had shared before this place, and the hiking trip last summer when they had talked about maybe getting a dog. Neither mentioned marriage; they had decided years ago that living together felt right for now.

After dinner they washed dishes side by side, then settled back on the couch with a movie they both liked but had never finished. Halfway through, Emily rested her head on David's shoulder. He put an arm around her. The evening stayed quiet, exactly as they had planned, the kind of ordinary night that had become their favorite way to remember how it all started.


Alex and Jordan had been together for three years, sharing a modest apartment in Portland, Oregon. They weren't married, but their lives had intertwined completely—joint grocery lists, shared streaming passwords, and a well-worn couch that sagged in the middle from countless evenings side by side.

That Thursday afternoon, they decided to mark the anniversary of their first date with something simple. No restaurants, no crowds. Just the two of them.

Jordan stood at the kitchen counter chopping vegetables for a homemade pasta primavera, the knife tapping rhythmically against the cutting board. "Remember that little Italian place downtown? The one with the terrible lighting but the amazing garlic bread?"

Alex, who had just come in from work and was still loosening his tie, smiled as he pulled a bottle of red wine from the rack. "How could I forget? You spilled marinara on your shirt and we laughed so hard the waiter thought we were drunk." He uncorked the bottle and poured two glasses, handing one to Jordan.

They moved around each other easily, a practiced dance. Alex sautéed the vegetables while Jordan boiled the pasta, both of them trading stories from that first night—how nervous they'd been, how they'd talked until the restaurant closed.

Once the meal was ready, they set the small table by the window, dimming the lights and lighting a single candle. They ate slowly, talking about everything and nothing: work frustrations, weekend plans, a new hiking trail they wanted to try.

After dinner they settled on the couch with the rest of the wine, putting on the same movie they'd watched after their first date. Jordan leaned against Alex, who absently traced circles on Jordan's shoulder.

"Three years," Jordan said quietly. "Feels both like forever and like it just started."

Alex nodded, pressing a kiss to Jordan's temple. "Best three years."

They stayed like that until the credits rolled, content in the quiet they'd chosen together.


Sarah and Michael had shared a modest apartment in Seattle for nearly three years, unmarried but thoroughly intertwined in daily life. Their anniversary of first meeting at a neighborhood bookstore always called for something low-key, and this evening they intended to keep it that way.

Sarah closed her laptop after finishing a freelance illustration and stretched. “Let’s skip restaurants,” she said. “I’ll make the mushroom risotto if you handle the playlist and the table.”

Michael, who had just wrapped a video call, nodded and stood. “Deal. I’ll grab the wine and those olives you like. We can eat on the balcony if the rain holds off.” He pulled on a jacket and headed out while Sarah started chopping onions and garlic, the familiar sizzle filling the kitchen.

When Michael returned, they worked side by side. He uncorked the bottle, set two mismatched plates, and queued a mix of the folk songs they had listened to on their first date. Sarah stirred the risotto, tasting and adjusting seasoning, then handed him the wooden spoon so she could grate Parmesan. They talked about how nervous they had both been that afternoon four years earlier, how a conversation about a dog-eared novel had stretched into coffee and then dinner.

Rain began tapping the windows, so they stayed inside. Michael dimmed the lights and lit a single candle. They ate slowly, passing the salad bowl back and forth, recalling small milestones: the first time they had assembled IKEA furniture without arguing, the weekend they had adopted their cat. Afterward they washed dishes together, Sarah washing, Michael drying, both already planning next year’s equally quiet night.


Michael and Sarah had been living together for two years in their modest two-bedroom apartment just outside Chicago. They weren’t married, but the date they first became a couple—three years earlier, after a long friendship—mattered more to them than any legal milestone. That Friday evening, they planned to mark it quietly at home.

Sarah arrived first, kicking off her shoes and dropping her work bag by the door. She texted Michael: *Wine or beer tonight?* He replied instantly: *Your call. I’ll grab groceries on the way.* She smiled and started prepping the kitchen, chopping vegetables for the pasta they both liked. When Michael walked in twenty minutes later, he set two bags on the counter and pulled her into a quick hug.

“Anniversary dinner, coming up,” he said, already washing the tomatoes. They moved around each other easily, trading tasks. Sarah sautéed garlic while Michael boiled water and opened a bottle of red wine. They talked about their days—her frustrating meeting, his successful client call—then shifted to memories.

“Remember that first date?” Sarah asked, stirring the sauce. “You were so nervous you spilled coffee on yourself.”

Michael laughed. “And you pretended not to notice. That’s when I knew.” He grated Parmesan and handed her a glass. They ate at the small table by the window, lights low, no phones. Afterward they washed dishes together, then settled on the couch with a movie they’d both wanted to rewatch.

Halfway through, Sarah paused it. “Three years. Still feels right.”

Michael nodded, squeezing her hand. “Quiet nights like this are the best part.” They finished the film, talked a little longer, and went to bed content. No grand gestures, just the two of them, exactly as they liked it.


Alex and Jordan had shared their two-bedroom apartment in Chicago for three years, ever since they decided living together made more sense than splitting rent on separate places. Tonight marked the fourth anniversary of their first date, a rainy evening at a diner that neither of them had forgotten. They wanted something quiet, no restaurants or crowds, just the two of them.

Jordan stood at the kitchen counter chopping vegetables for a simple pasta dish, the one they always made when they needed comfort. “I picked up that bottle of red we liked last month,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “And I found those old photos from the diner on my phone. We could look through them after dinner.”

Alex, sitting at the small table folding laundry they’d both neglected, nodded and smiled. “Perfect. I’ll set the table and light those candles we bought last winter but never used. We should keep it low-key—maybe put on that playlist we made when we first moved in.” She stood, walked over, and took the knife from Jordan’s hand so he could rinse the cutting board. “You always cut the onions too thick. Let me finish this while you pick the music.”

They moved around each other easily, the way people do after years of sharing a space. Jordan queued the songs on the speaker, then helped Alex plate the pasta. They sat across from each other, the candles flickering between them, and talked about the diner, the way the waitress had given them extra fries because they looked nervous. Alex reached across the table and squeezed Jordan’s hand. “Four years. Still glad we didn’t overthink it.”

Jordan squeezed back. “Me too. Next year we can do something bigger if we want. Tonight this is enough.” They ate slowly, the city lights glowing through the window, two people who had chosen each other and a quiet evening that felt exactly right.


Emily unlocked the apartment door just after six, the Chicago wind still clinging to her coat. Michael was already home, sleeves rolled up, chopping vegetables at the kitchen island. He looked up and smiled. “I clocked out early. Figured we should actually celebrate instead of just talking about it.”

She hung her bag on the hook and crossed the room to kiss his cheek. “Five years today. Feels longer and shorter at the same time.”

Michael set the knife down and pulled her into a quick hug. “Remember that first date? You spilled coffee on my only decent shirt and then pretended it was part of some elaborate icebreaker.”

Emily laughed, the sound warm in the small kitchen. “You still wore it the rest of the night. That’s when I knew you were worth keeping around.” She opened the fridge and pulled out the bottle of wine they’d been saving. “Quiet night, right? No restaurants, no crowds. Just us.”

“Exactly.” Michael returned to the cutting board. “I’m making that pasta you like—the one with the roasted tomatoes and basil from the pot on the fire escape. You handle the playlist and the candles?”

She nodded, already scrolling through her phone. “I’ve got the song that was playing when we first said we loved each other. And those unscented candles so we don’t set off the smoke alarm again.”

While the sauce simmered, they moved around each other with the ease of people who shared every drawer and every morning. Emily lit the candles on the coffee table and dimmed the overhead lights. Michael plated the pasta, steam rising in the soft glow.

They sat on the couch, plates balanced on their knees, the city lights flickering beyond the window. Michael raised his glass. “To five years of not killing each other over whose turn it is to take out the trash.”

Emily clinked her glass against his. “And to whatever comes next. As long as it’s quiet nights like this.”

They ate slowly, talking about nothing important—work stories, a neighbor’s new dog, plans for a weekend hike if the weather held. When the plates were empty they stayed there, shoulders touching, the anniversary unfolding exactly as they’d hoped: simple, shared, and theirs.


Alex and Jordan had been together for three years, sharing a small apartment in Portland since the second year. Neither had proposed marriage; they simply liked the life they had built. On a Friday evening in late October, they stood in their kitchen discussing how to mark the anniversary of their first date.

Jordan pulled a bottle of inexpensive red wine from the cabinet. “I thought we could skip restaurants this year. Just stay in, cook something simple, and maybe put on that playlist from our trip to the coast.”

Alex nodded, already chopping onions for a pasta sauce. “That sounds perfect. I’ll handle the sauce if you set the table and find those candles we never use.” They worked side by side, trading small stories about the day they had met at a mutual friend’s barbecue. Jordan recalled how Alex had spilled soda on both of them and then laughed so hard they had to sit down. Alex remembered Jordan offering a spare hoodie without hesitation.

Once the sauce simmered, they sat at the tiny table by the window. Rain tapped against the glass. They ate slowly, talking about the apartment they hoped to find next year and the dog they might adopt. After dinner they moved to the couch, sharing the last of the wine while an old movie played with the sound low. Jordan rested a hand on Alex’s knee; Alex leaned in and they stayed that way, quiet, until the credits rolled.

They washed the dishes together, still talking about nothing important, then turned off the lights and went to bed. The evening had been exactly what they wanted: no crowds, no fuss, just the two of them marking another year.


Sarah and David arrived home from work within minutes of each other, dropping their bags by the door of their two-bedroom apartment in Denver. They had lived together for two years, and tonight marked three years since their first date at a coffee shop downtown. Neither wanted a big production; they preferred something low-key after long days.

David pulled leftovers from the fridge while Sarah checked the weather app. “Rain’s starting,” she said. “Good night to stay in. How about we make that stir-fry we keep talking about? I’ll chop if you handle the sauce.”

He nodded and grabbed the wok. “Sounds perfect. I’ll pick a movie after we eat—something neither of us has seen. You choose the playlist.” Sarah queued up a mix of indie tracks they both liked and started slicing vegetables. They moved around the small kitchen without getting in each other’s way, trading stories about their days: her meeting that ran long, his client who finally signed.

Once the food was sizzling, David set the table with the mismatched plates they had collected over time. Sarah poured sparkling water into wine glasses they rarely used. They ate slowly, talking about a weekend hike they might take if the weather cleared. After dinner they settled on the couch with a blanket. David started the movie he had found—an old comedy neither remembered well—while Sarah dimmed the lights.

Halfway through they paused it so she could grab the small photo they had printed of their first date. They propped it on the coffee table and sat close, finishing the film in comfortable silence. When the credits rolled they stayed there a while longer, planning nothing more than sleep and the next ordinary day. It felt like enough.


Maya wiped her hands on a dish towel and glanced at the clock. Six-thirty. Liam was already chopping basil at the kitchen island of their small Portland apartment, the evening light slanting through the blinds. Three years to the day since they had first stayed up talking until dawn on that park bench downtown.

“I still think we should keep it simple,” Liam said, sliding the basil into a bowl. “Garlic, olive oil, the good pasta we bought last week. No restaurant noise, no reservations.”

Maya nodded and pulled two wine glasses from the cabinet. “Agreed. I’ll handle the salad and the playlist. Something low-key—maybe that jazz album we found at the record store.” She opened the fridge, checking the greens she had picked up that afternoon. “You remember how we argued about whether it was our first date or just hanging out?”

Liam laughed, stirring the sauce. “You insisted it counted. I was just trying not to scare you off.” He tasted the sauce, then handed her the spoon. “Needs more salt?”

She sampled it, added a pinch, and set the table while he boiled water. They moved around each other easily, the way people do after years of shared space. Maya dimmed the lights and lit two candles they had bought on sale. Liam poured the wine they had chosen together at the shop on Hawthorne.

They sat down as the pasta finished. Maya raised her glass. “To the bench, and everything after.”

Liam clinked his against hers. “To more quiet nights like this.” They ate slowly, talking about work, their upcoming hike, the leaky faucet they still needed to fix. After dinner they washed dishes side by side, then settled on the couch with the leftover wine and a worn deck of cards. No grand gestures, just the two of them, the city humming faintly outside, marking another year the only way that felt right.