In their modest bungalow on the outskirts of Denver, Colorado, Lena and Marcus sat at the kitchen table one Thursday evening, leftover takeout containers pushed aside. They had lived together for four years, unmarried but fully committed, and their seventh anniversary as a couple was just ten days away.

Lena scrolled through her phone, then set it down. “I keep seeing ads for weekend cabins up in the mountains. We could hike, unplug, maybe even splurge on a hot tub.”

Marcus leaned back, rubbing his neck. “Tempting, but my project at the office is due that Monday. A last-minute trip might turn into more stress than celebration. What if we stay home and make it special here instead?”

She considered that, nodding slowly. “Okay, home base. We could cook that Thai curry we always burn, put on the playlist from our first road trip, and actually sit down without phones.”

“I like the cooking part,” Marcus said, standing to grab a notepad. “We can shop together Saturday morning, pick out ingredients like we’re actually chefs. I’ll handle the rice this time so it doesn’t turn into glue.”

Lena laughed and added her own ideas. “And after dinner we walk down to the park with those cheap lawn chairs we never use. Watch the sunset, talk about what’s next—maybe even look at a few houses if we’re feeling brave.”

They spent the next twenty minutes listing groceries, assigning who would buy flowers versus who would clean the patio. Marcus suggested a small photo album of their years together as a gift they could assemble that night. Lena countered with a promise to finally frame the snapshot from their first apartment.

By the time they stood to clear the table, the plan felt settled and theirs: a quiet, homemade evening that honored how far they had come without pretending they needed anything more elaborate. They high-fived across the counter, already looking forward to it.


Alex and Jordan sat across from each other at the small oak table in the kitchen of their rented bungalow on the outskirts of Portland, Oregon. Rain tapped steadily against the window as they finished leftover pasta from the night before. Their fifth anniversary was two weeks away, and neither wanted another quiet evening of takeout and streaming.

Jordan twirled a fork. “I keep thinking we should actually leave the house this time. Maybe drive down the coast, stay in one of those little inns in Cannon Beach.”

Alex nodded, pushing a strand of hair behind one ear. “That sounds nice, but Friday’s a half-day for me at the clinic and you’ve got that client deadline. We’d be rushing the whole way. What if we just pick a Saturday, pack a picnic, and hike Multnomah Falls? We haven’t done that since we first moved in together.”

Jordan leaned back, considering. “True. And we could stop at that farm stand on the way back, grab stuff for dinner. I’ll make the risotto you like if you handle dessert.”

“Deal,” Alex said. “But let’s not pretend we’re twenty-two. We’ll take the easy trail and bring real chairs instead of sitting on wet rocks.”

They both laughed. Jordan reached across the table and squeezed Alex’s hand. “Five years. Feels longer and shorter at the same time. I’m glad we waited to get a place together until it felt right.”

Alex smiled. “Me too. No pressure, just us deciding what we actually want.” They spent the next twenty minutes mapping the drive, checking the weather, and arguing lightly over who would pack the coffee thermos. By the time the dishes were in the sink, the plan felt settled and theirs.


Emily and Michael sat at their kitchen table in their modest two-bedroom house in suburban Ohio, the late afternoon sun filtering through the blinds. They had lived together for three years, sharing bills, chores, and quiet evenings after work. Tomorrow marked five years since they first met at a mutual friend's barbecue, an anniversary they both wanted to honor without fanfare.

Michael set down his coffee mug. "I was thinking we could just stay in. I'll grill those steaks we bought, and we can watch that movie we've been putting off. No crowds, no reservations."

Emily smiled, stirring her tea. "That sounds nice, but I don't want it to feel like any other Friday. Remember how we hiked that trail on our second date? Maybe we could pack a picnic and go back there. It's only an hour away."

He nodded, considering. "The weather's supposed to be good. We'd have to leave early, though—I've got that report due Monday, and you mentioned your team meeting."

"True," she said. "We could do a shorter version, just the overlook spot. Or... what if we combine it? Picnic lunch, then come home for dinner and the movie. That way it's special but not exhausting."

Michael reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "I like that. We can stop at the bakery for those cinnamon rolls you love. Keep it simple, like us."

They spent the next twenty minutes mapping it out: grocery list, departure time, even a playlist of songs from their early days. Emily suggested bringing a blanket and a small speaker. Michael offered to handle the cooler. By the time they stood to start dinner, the plan felt right—personal, low-key, and entirely theirs.

As they chopped vegetables side by side, Emily glanced over. "Five years. Still can't believe it sometimes."

Michael grinned. "Me neither. Here's to many more ordinary days that turn into something worth celebrating." They clinked their water glasses, already looking forward to tomorrow.


In their modest two-story house on a quiet street in Columbus, Ohio, Elena and Marcus sat at the kitchen table one Tuesday evening, leftovers from takeout cooling between them. They had lived together for four years, unmarried but committed, sharing bills, a rescue dog named Scout, and the rhythms of everyday life. Next Saturday marked their seventh anniversary of becoming a couple.

Elena, a 31-year-old nurse, pushed her plate aside. “We should do something this year. Not just dinner and a movie like last time. Something that feels like us.”

Marcus, 33 and a high-school teacher, nodded while stacking dishes. “Agreed. I was thinking we could drive up to the lake for the day. Rent a kayak, pack sandwiches. It’s cheap and we haven’t been since last summer.”

Elena smiled but shook her head. “The lake’s nice, but I have a double shift Friday. I’d be exhausted. What about staying home and cooking that paella recipe we’ve talked about forever? We could set the patio table, put up lights, make it feel special without leaving.”

Marcus considered it, scratching Scout’s ears when the dog wandered over. “I like the idea of staying in, but I don’t want it to feel like any other Saturday. How about we combine them? Morning hike at the metro park, then come back and cook together. I’ll handle the shopping Thursday after work.”

Elena reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “That works. We can pick up wine and those little desserts from the bakery downtown. No big speeches, just us talking about the year.”

They spent the next twenty minutes mapping the details: trail choice, grocery list, who would walk Scout beforehand. By the time they stood to load the dishwasher, the plan felt settled and theirs. Scout thumped his tail against the cabinet as if approving. In the end they chose something simple that still marked the day as theirs alone.


Emma and Liam sat at their kitchen table in the modest two-bedroom house they rented on the outskirts of Denver. They had been together for five years, living together for the last three, and tomorrow marked the anniversary of the night they first met at a mutual friend's barbecue. Neither had brought up marriage, but both felt the date mattered.

Emma stirred her coffee and looked across at Liam, who was scrolling through his phone. "We should do something," she said. "Not just order pizza like last year."

Liam set the phone down. "I was thinking the same. Maybe we drive up to the mountains for the day? Hike that trail we like, then grab dinner in Boulder."

Emma considered it. The idea appealed, but she had a deadline at work the following Monday. "I like the hike, but I don't want to be exhausted Sunday night. What if we stay local? Cook that risotto we keep talking about, open a decent bottle of wine, and watch the movie we never finished."

Liam nodded slowly. He had been looking forward to getting out of the city, yet he also knew Emma's job had been demanding lately. "We could do both," he offered. "Morning hike, nothing too long, then come back and cook together. I'll handle the grocery run tonight."

Emma smiled. "That works. I'll make the dessert if you pick up the ingredients. And no phones at the table."

They spent the next twenty minutes mapping a short route and listing what they needed from the store. Liam added a small bouquet of wildflowers to the mental list, something simple he knew she would notice. Emma, for her part, decided she would write a short note to leave on his pillow, nothing dramatic, just a few lines about why the day still felt important.

By the time they finished their coffee, the plan felt settled and theirs. They would mark the anniversary the way they had built the rest of their life together: quietly, practically, and side by side.


In their modest two-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of Denver, Colorado, Maya and Liam sat at the kitchen island after work, leftovers from last night’s stir-fry reheating in the microwave. Maya, a graphic designer, scrolled through her phone while Liam, a high-school counselor, flipped through a stack of unopened mail.

“Three years next Thursday,” Maya said, setting the phone down. “Feels longer, doesn’t it?”

Liam looked up and smiled. “In a good way. We should do something. Not huge—just us.”

They had moved in together eighteen months earlier, splitting rent on the place with its slightly sagging porch and view of the Rockies. Money was always tight, but they made it work.

“I was thinking dinner somewhere,” Liam offered. “That Italian place downtown? We haven’t been since last winter.”

Maya wrinkled her nose. “Reservations are booked solid, and it’s pricey. What if we stay in? I can make the lasagna my mom taught me. You pick the wine.”

Liam considered it, then nodded. “Deal. And maybe after, we walk down to the park like we did the night we decided to live together. No phones.”

Maya laughed. “You just want to avoid doing dishes.”

“Caught me.” He reached across and squeezed her hand. “But yeah. Simple feels right. We’ve already got the home part figured out. The rest is just us showing up.”

The microwave beeped. They plated the leftovers and ate standing at the counter, trading ideas for a playlist and whether to invite the neighbor’s dog along on the walk. By the time they finished, the decision felt settled: homemade dinner, a short walk under the streetlights, and an early night. Nothing flashy, just the two of them marking another year in the place they already called theirs.


Alex and Jordan had shared their modest two-bedroom bungalow in a quiet Portland suburb for four years. They weren't married, but the house felt like theirs—mismatched furniture from thrift stores, a vegetable garden they'd planted together last spring, and a cat named Miso who claimed the sunniest windowsill. Their fifth anniversary of being a couple was two weeks away, and they sat at the kitchen table after dinner, laptops closed, deciding how to mark it.

"I don't want anything huge," Alex said, stirring leftover tea. "We're not the type for fancy hotels or big parties. Maybe just a really good meal at that Italian place we like, then come home and watch the movie we first saw together."

Jordan nodded, leaning back in the chair. "That sounds nice, but I was thinking we could do something a little more us. Remember how we always talked about hiking up to Multnomah Falls and having a picnic at the top? We could pack sandwiches, that good cheese, and a thermos of coffee. No reservations, no crowds if we go early."

Alex smiled. "I like that. We could leave at dawn, beat the tourists. And if it rains, we just stay in, cook something elaborate here, and dance in the living room like idiots. Either way, it's just us."

They talked through the details: who would pack the food, whether to invite Miso in spirit by leaving her extra treats, how they'd take photos without making it feel performative. Jordan suggested writing each other short letters to read at the falls or at the table. Alex agreed, adding that they should also plant something new in the garden that weekend as a living reminder.

By the time the tea was gone, they had a plan that felt right—simple, shared, and theirs. They stacked the dishes together, already looking forward to the day.


Michael and Sarah sat across from each other at the small oak table in their rented bungalow on the outskirts of Denver. The evening light filtered through the kitchen window as they finished leftover stir-fry. Their third anniversary was two weeks away, and the conversation had turned to it naturally after Sarah mentioned seeing a couple at the grocery store buying flowers.

“I still can’t believe we’ve made it this far,” Sarah said, pushing a stray noodle around her plate. “We should mark it somehow. Not just another Tuesday.”

Michael leaned back, considering. “Agreed. Last year we splurged on that overpriced steakhouse and both felt guilty afterward. Something smaller this time, but still ours.”

They tossed ideas back and forth. Sarah suggested a day hike in the nearby foothills followed by a picnic, something they used to do when they first started dating. Michael liked the idea but pointed out the unpredictable spring weather and the fact that both of them had early meetings the next Monday. He countered with cooking a more ambitious meal together at home—maybe the Thai recipes they’d bookmarked months ago—and then watching the documentary series they’d been saving.

Sarah smiled. “That could work. We could set the table with the good plates we never use and light those candles your sister gave us. Keep it simple, no reservations, no traffic.”

Michael nodded. “And if the weather’s decent we could eat on the back porch. I’ll pick up the ingredients Saturday so we’re not rushing after work.”

They spent another ten minutes refining the plan: a short morning walk around the neighborhood to start the day, then the cooking, then the movie. Nothing extravagant, just the two of them in the home they shared, marking the time they had built together. By the time they stood to clear the dishes, the decision felt settled and right.


Maya and Liam sat at their kitchen table in the modest two-bedroom house they rented on the outskirts of Denver. Five years together, two of them sharing this space, and the anniversary was two weeks away. Steam rose from their coffee mugs as late afternoon light filtered through the window.

Liam flipped through a notebook. “I was thinking we could drive up to the mountains for the weekend. Rent a cabin, hike, maybe that hot spring we talked about last year.”

Maya smiled but shook her head. “Sounds perfect, except my project deadline is the Friday before. I’d be checking emails the whole time. We’d both end up stressed.”

He nodded, closing the notebook. “Fair. Fancy dinner downtown then? That new place with the tasting menu?”

“We did something like that last year,” she said, reaching across to squeeze his hand. “It was nice, but I want this one to feel more like us. Remember when we first moved in and cooked that terrible pasta because neither of us knew how to boil water properly?”

Liam laughed. “You burned the garlic. I still tease you about it.”

They sat quietly for a moment, the familiar rhythm of their shared home settling around them. Maya suggested they stay in, cook a real meal together this time—something they’d actually researched—and spend the evening going through the box of photos and ticket stubs they’d collected since they started dating.

Liam’s face lit up. “And we open that bottle of wine we bought on our first trip to Napa. The one we’ve been saving.”

“Exactly. No reservations, no traffic. Just us, the house, and five years of stuff we’ve built.”

They spent the next hour planning the menu, assigning grocery runs, and arguing gently over dessert. By the time they stood to start dinner, the decision felt settled and right, another small piece of the life they were making together.


Emily and Michael sat at their kitchen table in the modest two-bedroom house they rented on the outskirts of Denver, the late afternoon sun filtering through the blinds. They had been together for five years, sharing this space for the last three, and tomorrow marked the anniversary of the day they first met at a mutual friend's barbecue.

Emily stirred her tea, glancing at the calendar on the fridge. "We should do something special, but nothing crazy. Work's been insane for both of us."

Michael nodded, flipping through a local events app on his phone. "Yeah, I was thinking maybe a hike up to that trail we like, then a picnic. Keep it simple, like us." He set the phone down and reached for her hand. "Or we could stay in, cook that pasta dish from our first date. I found the recipe again."

She smiled, squeezing his fingers. "The hike sounds perfect, but the weather app says rain. What if we do the dinner here, then drive up to Boulder for the night? There's that inn we always talk about, and it's not too far."

They spent the next twenty minutes weighing options, considering their budgets and the fact that Michael had an early meeting Monday. Emily pulled up a booking site, showing him a last-minute deal. Michael suggested adding a bottle of wine from the shop down the street, the same kind they'd shared on their second date.

In the end, they settled on cooking together that evening—fresh ingredients from the farmers' market—and heading out Saturday morning for a short overnight stay. As they started chopping vegetables, laughing about how they'd almost forgotten the exact date last year, the decision felt right. It was theirs, unhurried and real, just like the life they were building side by side.

The pasta simmered as they toasted with water glasses, already looking forward to the drive.


Sarah and Mike sat at their kitchen table in the modest two-bedroom house they rented on the outskirts of Austin, Texas. Evening light filtered through the blinds as they finished leftover pasta from the night before. They had lived together for three years, unmarried but committed, sharing bills, a rescue dog named Biscuit, and the quiet rhythms of everyday life.

Mike set down his fork and glanced at the calendar on the fridge. “Hey, next Saturday’s our five-year anniversary. Feels like it snuck up on us.”

Sarah smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I know. I’ve been thinking about it too. We should do something, but nothing crazy. We’re still saving for that vacation next year.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Last year we just grilled in the backyard and watched movies. That was nice, but maybe we could step it up a little. What if we booked a table at that new Italian place downtown? The one with the patio.”

Sarah considered it, swirling her water glass. “That sounds good, but reservations are probably booked solid, and parking’s a nightmare. Plus, we’d have to dress up. I kind of like the idea of staying home but making it special. We could cook together—maybe try that recipe from your mom, the one with the fresh herbs.”

Mike leaned back, thinking. “Or we could take Biscuit for a hike at the greenbelt in the morning, then come back and have a picnic in the yard. Simple, but it’d be just us.”

They talked it over, weighing the options without rushing. Sarah suggested adding a playlist of songs from their first dates. Mike offered to pick up flowers from the farmers’ market. In the end, they settled on a homemade dinner followed by a walk around the neighborhood at dusk, ending with dessert on the porch.

As they cleared the dishes, Sarah squeezed his hand. “I’m glad we figured it out together. That’s what matters.”

Mike grinned. “Yeah. Five years down, and still deciding things like this. Feels right.”

They finished the evening planning the menu, content in their shared home.


Elena and Marcus sat at their kitchen table in the modest two-bedroom house they rented on the outskirts of Austin, Texas. Evening light filtered through the blinds as they finished leftover pasta. Five years together—three of them sharing this home—felt like a milestone worth marking, even if they had never married.

Marcus set down his fork. “We should do something this weekend. Nothing huge, but something that feels like us.”

Elena nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I was thinking the same. A fancy restaurant would be nice, but we’ve both been slammed at work. I don’t want to spend the whole night watching the clock.”

He smiled. “What if we drive out to that little cabin we found last spring? The one by the lake. We could pack food, play cards, just be there.”

She considered it, tracing the wood grain on the table. “That sounds perfect, but the weather’s supposed to turn rainy. Maybe we stay home and cook something special instead. I’ll make that risotto you like, and we can put on the playlist from our first trip.”

Marcus leaned back. “I like that. We could also invite your sister and her husband for dessert afterward. Keep it low-key but still celebrate with people who matter.”

Elena reached across and squeezed his hand. “Or just the two of us. We’ve earned a quiet night. We can decide Saturday morning based on how we feel.”

They talked a little longer about small details—whether to buy flowers, if they should take Friday afternoon off—until the conversation drifted into comfortable silence. Later they washed dishes side by side, already looking forward to whatever they chose. The anniversary would not be defined by grand gestures, only by the easy way they planned it together in the home they had made.

(Word count: 298)


In their modest two-bedroom house on a quiet street in Columbus, Ohio, Maya Chen and Liam Torres sat at the kitchen table one Tuesday evening, the remains of leftover pasta still on their plates. They had lived together for four years, unmarried by choice, and their fifth dating anniversary was two weeks away.

Maya scrolled through her phone. “I was thinking we could just stay in. Cook something nicer than usual, maybe that risotto we keep talking about. No reservations, no crowds.”

Liam leaned back in his chair, considering. “That sounds good, but I feel like we should mark it somehow. We’ve both been slammed at work. A little break might help. What if we drove up to Hocking Hills for the night? Cabin, hike, nothing fancy.”

She set the phone down. “A cabin would be nice, but last time we tried that we spent half the weekend in traffic. I’d rather not start the day already tired.”

He nodded, reaching for her hand across the table. “Fair. Okay, stay home then. We could still make it special. I’ll handle the grocery run this weekend, get the good wine. You pick the movie or the playlist.”

Maya smiled. “Deal. And maybe we write those letters we talked about last year—the ones we never got around to. Just a page each about what this year meant.”

Liam squeezed her fingers. “I like that. Low-key, but it actually means something. We can read them after dinner, on the couch.”

They spent the next few minutes mapping out the details: Maya would handle the risotto ingredients, Liam the wine and dessert. No big speeches, no expensive gifts, just the two of them acknowledging the ordinary life they had built. When they finally stood to clear the dishes, the plan felt settled, practical, and entirely theirs.


In their modest ranch-style home on a quiet street in suburban Columbus, Ohio, Elena and Marcus had shared a life for four years, though their relationship had begun five years earlier during a chance meeting at a farmers' market. One crisp October evening, after dinner dishes were cleared, they settled onto the living-room sofa with mugs of cider, the anniversary date circled on the calendar hanging in the kitchen.

Elena tucked her feet under her and said, “Next Saturday is five years. I don’t want it to just slip by like any other weekend. We should do something that actually feels like us.”

Marcus set his mug down and turned toward her. “I’ve been thinking the same thing. A fancy restaurant downtown would be nice, but it also feels a little generic. What if we packed a picnic and drove out to that state park where we hiked last spring? We could stay until sunset.”

Elena considered it, tracing the rim of her mug. “I like the park idea, but the weather’s supposed to turn rainy. Maybe we keep it closer—cook together here. We could try that complicated paella recipe we never finished last winter, then watch the movie we saw on our first real date.”

Marcus grinned. “Paella and *When Harry Met Sally*. That’s perfect. And if it stays dry we can still take a short walk around the neighborhood afterward, just like we used to when we first moved in.”

They spent the next half hour refining the plan: grocery list, playlist, even a small toast with the bottle of wine they’d been saving. Both contributed ideas and vetoed others without tension, the conversation flowing as easily as any ordinary evening. By the time they headed upstairs, the anniversary no longer felt like an obligation but like a shared project they were both looking forward to completing together.


Alex and Jordan sat at their kitchen table in the modest two-bedroom house they rented on the outskirts of Denver, the late afternoon sun filtering through the blinds. They had lived together for three years after meeting at a community college night class, and next month marked five years since their first date at a local brewery.

Jordan, scrolling through their shared calendar on a tablet, looked up. "We should do something special for the anniversary. Five years feels like a milestone."

Alex nodded, stirring leftover chili on the stove. "I was thinking the same. Nothing too flashy, though. We're still paying off that car repair."

"True," Jordan said. "A weekend trip to the mountains? We could hike and stay in a cheap cabin."

Alex considered it, then shook their head. "The weather might turn, and we'd spend half the time driving. What about cooking a nice dinner here? We could get those steaks we like and open that bottle of wine we got last Christmas."

Jordan smiled but pushed back gently. "That's cozy, but I want to get out of the house a bit. Maybe a picnic at the park by the river, then a movie afterward? We haven't done that in ages."

They talked it through, weighing costs and energy after long workweeks—Alex at the warehouse, Jordan at the clinic. Eventually they settled on a hybrid: a homemade dinner at home followed by a walk along the nearby trail if the evening stayed clear. Jordan would handle the grocery run, Alex the playlist and table setting.

As they finished eating, Jordan reached across and squeezed Alex's hand. "It's not about the big gestures. Just us, marking the time."

Alex agreed, already looking forward to it. In their quiet home, the plan felt right—simple, shared, and theirs.


In their modest two-bedroom house on a quiet street in suburban Ohio, Emily and David sat across from each other at the kitchen table one Saturday morning. They had shared the space for three years, ever since moving in together after dating for two. Next month marked five years since their first date at a local coffee shop, and they wanted to mark it meaningfully without overspending.

Emily stirred her tea and spoke first. "I was thinking we could book that little cabin up north for the weekend. Just us, no work emails, maybe a hike if the weather holds."

David nodded, flipping through a notebook of ideas he had jotted down. "That sounds nice, but the drive is four hours each way. What if we stay closer? We could cook that risotto we both like, open a decent bottle of wine, and watch the movie we never finished last month."

She smiled, reaching across to squeeze his hand. "I like the cooking part. We haven't done that in ages. But I also want to get out of the house a bit. Remember how we used to walk the river trail?"

"Yeah," David said. "We could pack a picnic and head there Saturday afternoon. Then come back and make dinner together. Simple, but it feels like us."

Emily considered it, glancing out the window at their small backyard. "That works. And maybe we write down a few things we're grateful for from the last five years. Nothing fancy, just honest."

David grinned. "I can do that. I'll even handle the grocery run this time."

They spent the next twenty minutes mapping out the details: what to pack, which trail section to take, and a backup plan if it rained. By the time they stood to start their chores, the plan felt settled and theirs. It wasn't extravagant, but it was realistic for two people who valued time together over grand gestures. Later that evening, as they washed dishes side by side, Emily mentioned she was already looking forward to it, and David agreed it would be a good way to remember how far they had come.


Michael and Sarah sat at their kitchen table in the modest two-bedroom house they rented on the outskirts of Columbus, Ohio. Evening light filtered through the blinds as they finished leftover pasta. They had lived together for three years, unmarried but committed, and tomorrow marked five years since they first met at a mutual friend's barbecue.

Sarah twirled her fork. "We should do something for the anniversary. Nothing huge, just... mark it."

Michael nodded, pushing his plate aside. "Agreed. Last year we just ordered pizza and watched a movie. Felt a little lazy." He leaned back. "What are you thinking? Dinner out? That Italian place downtown?"

She considered it. "It's nice, but we've been there a lot. Maybe something different. A hike at the state park, then picnic? The weather's supposed to be good."

"I like that," he said. "We could pack sandwiches, that cheese you like, and a bottle of wine. Keep it simple, just us." He paused. "Or we could drive to the lake for the afternoon. Rent a canoe if it's not too crowded."

Sarah smiled. "Canoeing sounds fun, but I have that early shift Saturday. Hiking might be easier on time." She reached across and squeezed his hand. "Whatever we pick, I just want it to feel like us. No pressure, no big production."

They talked through the details: who would pack the cooler, which trail to take, whether to invite anyone or keep it private. Michael suggested stopping for ice cream on the way home. Sarah added that they should take a photo together, something they rarely did.

By the time they cleared the dishes, they had settled on the hike and picnic. It felt right—active, low-key, and shared. As they headed to the living room, Michael said, "Five years. Still can't believe it."

Sarah laughed softly. "Me neither. But I'm glad we're figuring this out together." They sat on the couch, already looking forward to the next day.


Sarah and Mike sat at their kitchen table in the modest two-bedroom house they rented on the outskirts of Denver, the late afternoon sun filtering through the blinds. They had lived together for three years, after dating for two more, and next Saturday marked their fifth anniversary as a couple. Neither had ever been married, and they liked it that way—simple, committed, no paperwork required.

Mike stirred his coffee and looked up from his laptop. “We should do something special this year. Not just pizza and a movie like last time.”

Sarah nodded, scrolling through her phone. “Agreed. But nothing too expensive. The car needs new tires, and rent’s due soon.” She set the phone down. “What if we cook a nice dinner here? I could try that risotto recipe, and you grill steaks. We open that bottle of wine we got in Napa.”

Mike considered it. “That sounds cozy, but I want us to get out of the house. Remember how we talked about hiking more? We could drive up to Rocky Mountain National Park, do a short trail, then have a picnic with sandwiches and that wine.”

Sarah smiled, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. “I like that. Fresh air, no crowds if we go early. We could even stay overnight in a cheap cabin if we book now.”

They spent the next twenty minutes looking up trail maps and cabin availability, trading ideas back and forth. Mike suggested bringing their dog, Luna, for the hike; Sarah added that they should pack extra layers because the weather could change fast. By the time they finished, they had a plan: leave Friday after work, hike Saturday morning, picnic by a lake, and return Sunday afternoon.

Sarah stood to start dinner. “This feels right. Just us, no big production.”

Mike closed his laptop and followed her to the stove. “Exactly. Five years down, and still figuring it out together.” They both laughed, already looking forward to the weekend.


Emily and David sat at their kitchen table in their modest two-bedroom house in suburban Ohio, leftover pasta cooling on their plates. They had lived together for four years, unmarried but committed, and their fifth anniversary as a couple was two weeks away.

David cleared the dishes while Emily opened her laptop. “We should do something special,” she said. “Not just dinner at that Italian place we always go to.”

He nodded, rinsing a plate. “Agreed. Last year felt routine. What if we drove up to Lake Erie for the weekend? Rent a cabin, hike, maybe rent a boat.”

Emily scrolled through listings. “Looks pricey this late. Plus you have that project deadline Friday. We’d be rushing.”

David sat back down, drying his hands. “True. What about staying home? Cook a big meal together, like that paella recipe we never tried. Invite your sister and her husband over for dessert.”

She considered it, tapping her pen. “I like the cooking part. But inviting people might turn it into a party. I want it to feel like us, you know? Just the two of us marking five years.”

They talked through options for twenty minutes: a concert in Cleveland, a staycation with movies and takeout from their favorite Thai spot, even a simple picnic in the park if the weather held. David mentioned how they’d met at a mutual friend’s barbecue, how they’d argued about moving in together at first, then settled into this easy rhythm of shared bills and Sunday grocery runs.

Emily closed the laptop. “How about this: Saturday we stay in, cook that paella, open a bottle of wine, and look through old photos. Sunday we take a long walk by the river and grab ice cream. Low-key, just us.”

David smiled. “Perfect. I’ll handle the grocery list tomorrow after work.”

They stood, stacked the last dishes, and headed to the living room, already planning the playlist.


In their modest two-bedroom bungalow on the outskirts of Portland, Oregon, Maya and Liam sat at the kitchen table after dinner, the remnants of takeout Thai still scattered between them. They had been together five years, sharing this home for the last three, and the anniversary was two weeks away.

Maya twirled a fork absently. “I don’t want anything flashy. Last year we did that fancy restaurant and I just felt overdressed and rushed.”

Liam nodded, leaning back in his chair. “Same. I liked when we stayed in and cooked that giant pot of chili, even if we burned the cornbread.” He smiled at the memory. “What if we actually plan something this time instead of deciding last minute?”

They started listing ideas. Maya suggested a hike in Forest Park followed by a picnic, something simple that would get them outside. Liam countered that the weather forecast looked rainy, and he preferred staying dry. “We could do a movie marathon at home,” he offered. “Those old rom-coms you like, plus the action ones I pick. I’ll make popcorn the right way this time—no microwave bag.”

Maya laughed. “Deal, but only if we also cook dinner together. I’ll handle the pasta if you grill the vegetables. We can set the table like we’re fancy.” She reached across and squeezed his hand. “And maybe write each other those letters we talked about last month? Nothing long, just what the last five years meant.”

Liam agreed quickly. They spent the next twenty minutes mapping it out: grocery list, movie order, even a backup indoor picnic if the rain persisted. By the time they stood to clean up, the plan felt settled and theirs. Maya rinsed plates while Liam wiped the table, both already looking forward to the quiet evening they had chosen together.


Emily and Michael sat at their kitchen table in the modest ranch house they rented on the outskirts of Columbus, Ohio. The evening light filtered through the blinds as they finished leftover pasta from the night before. Five years together felt significant, even without a marriage certificate, and they wanted to mark the anniversary of the day they'd moved in together.

Michael leaned back in his chair. "We should do something special this year. Not just dinner and a movie like last time."

Emily nodded, twirling her fork. "I was thinking the same. We've both been working extra hours. Maybe a weekend getaway? Nothing fancy, just a cabin up by Lake Erie. We could hike and cook our own meals."

He considered it. "That sounds good, but the drive is three hours each way, and gas plus the rental might stretch us. We've got the car payment coming up."

She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "True. What if we stay local? Book that nice Italian place downtown we've been meaning to try, then come home and open a bottle of wine on the patio. Simple, but we could make it ours."

Michael smiled. "I like that. We could also invite a couple of friends over the next night for a small gathering. Nothing big, just people who know us."

Emily thought for a moment. "Or we keep it just us. We've been so busy we barely talk some weeks. A quiet night might be better."

They talked through the details for another twenty minutes, weighing costs and energy levels. In the end they settled on the downtown dinner followed by an evening at home, with a promise to plan a short trip later in the fall when work slowed down. Michael stood and started clearing the plates while Emily opened her laptop to make the reservation.

The decision felt right, practical and theirs. They would celebrate the life they had built together, one ordinary evening at a time.


Sarah and David sat at their kitchen table in the modest two-bedroom house they rented on the outskirts of Denver, Colorado. They had shared the space for three years after dating for two more, and next Saturday would mark five years since they first met at a mutual friend’s barbecue. Neither wore a ring, but the date still felt important.

David scrolled through his phone while Sarah chopped vegetables for dinner. “We could drive up to the mountains,” he said. “Rent a cabin for the night. Something simple.”

Sarah paused, knife in hand. “That sounds nice, but we’ve both got work Monday. I’d rather not spend half the day in the car.” She set the knife down and joined him at the table. “What if we stayed local? There’s that new Italian place downtown. Or we could cook something special here and open the bottle of wine we’ve been saving.”

David considered it. He liked the idea of a quiet evening at home, but he also wanted the day to feel distinct from any other Saturday. “How about a compromise? We hike that trail we like in the morning, pack a picnic, then come back and make dinner together. No reservations, no rush.”

Sarah smiled. She had been thinking along similar lines. “I like that. We can pick up fresh bread and cheese on the way back. And maybe watch that movie we’ve been meaning to see.”

They spent the next twenty minutes listing ingredients and checking the weather. David offered to handle the picnic packing if Sarah planned the evening meal. She agreed, already picturing them on the trail, talking the way they always did when it was just the two of them. By the time they finished dinner that night, the plan felt settled and right, a small celebration that belonged only to them.


In their modest ranch-style home on a quiet street in suburban Ohio, Elena and David sat across from each other at the kitchen island on a rainy Thursday evening. Five years had passed since they first started dating after meeting at a community volunteer event, and though they had never married, they considered this anniversary a milestone worth marking together.

Elena, a graphic designer who worked remotely, closed her laptop and looked at David. “We should do something special this weekend,” she said. “Nothing huge, but something that feels like us.”

David, who managed a local hardware store, nodded while chopping vegetables for dinner. “I was thinking the same thing. We could drive up to that state park we like and hike the trail by the lake. Pack a picnic, maybe stay overnight in a cabin if they’re available.”

Elena considered it, stirring her tea. “That sounds peaceful. But the weather forecast looks iffy, and we’ve both been exhausted from work. What if we stay home instead? Cook a nice meal, open the good wine we’ve been saving, and look through those photo albums from our first couple of years.”

David set the knife down and smiled. “I like that even better. We can put on some music, maybe dance a little in the living room like we used to when we first moved in together. No pressure, just us talking about what’s next.”

They spent the next twenty minutes trading ideas, laughing about a disastrous camping trip from year two and agreeing that simplicity suited them best. By the time dinner was ready, they had settled on a quiet Saturday at home: homemade pasta, old photos, and plans to book that cabin for the following month. Both felt the decision was right—uncomplicated, shared, and entirely theirs.


In their modest ranch-style home on the outskirts of Denver, Colorado, Elena Vargas and Marcus Hale sat across from each other at the kitchen table after dinner, leftover pasta still on their plates. They had shared the house for two years, splitting rent, groceries, and the chaos of two demanding jobs—Elena as a graphic designer, Marcus as a high-school teacher. Their fifth anniversary as a couple was two weeks away, and neither wanted it to pass unmarked.

Marcus leaned back, rubbing his neck. “I keep thinking we should do something bigger this year. Maybe drive up to the mountains for a night, hike in the morning. We’ve talked about it forever.”

Elena nodded, tracing the rim of her water glass. “That sounds perfect, but I’ve got a client deadline that Friday. If we leave Saturday, we’d only get a few hours. What if we stay here and make it special instead? I could cook that paella recipe my mom sent, the one we never tried. We’d have the whole evening, no rush.”

Marcus considered it, then smiled. “Paella and a hike the next morning if the weather holds? We could pack a picnic for after. And maybe exchange those little notes we used to write each other when we first started dating—nothing expensive, just honest.”

Elena reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “I like that. We pick a playlist of songs from our first year, light some candles, and actually sit down without phones. No pressure to impress anyone but us.”

They spent the next twenty minutes mapping it out: Marcus would handle the grocery run and set up the backyard string lights; Elena would prep the ingredients Thursday night. They agreed the hike would be optional, depending on Elena’s energy after work. By the time they cleared the dishes, the plan felt like theirs—simple, shared, and exactly right for two people who already knew the value of an ordinary evening made deliberate.


In their modest ranch house on a tree-lined street in Columbus, Ohio, Elena and Marcus sat at the kitchen table one Saturday morning, coffee cooling as they planned their fifth anniversary. They had lived together for three years, unmarried but fully committed, sharing a mortgage, a aging golden retriever named Scout, and the everyday rhythms of work and home.

Elena, a nurse who worked rotating shifts, leaned forward. “I keep thinking about that weekend cabin we saw online. Two nights by the lake, just us. It would feel like a real reset.”

Marcus, who taught history at the local high school, shook his head gently. “I’d love that, but we’re still catching up from the furnace repair. A cabin plus gas and food would stretch us. What if we stay here and make it special instead?”

Elena considered this, stirring her mug. “Okay. We could cook together—your mom’s lasagna recipe, my chocolate cake. Put on the playlist from our first year. After dinner we walk Scout around the neighborhood like we used to when we first moved in.”

Marcus grinned. “Perfect. I’ll handle the grocery run after school Monday. You pick the wine. And maybe we exchange those little notes we used to write each other, nothing fancy.”

They spent the next half hour mapping details: Elena would set the table with the mismatched plates they had collected at flea markets; Marcus would charge the Bluetooth speaker and queue songs from their early dates. They laughed about how their first anniversary had been takeout pizza on a borrowed couch, and how far they had come without needing a wedding to prove it.

By the time Scout nosed their legs for a walk, the plan felt exactly right—simple, theirs, and rooted in the life they were already building together.


In their modest ranch-style house on the outskirts of Denver, Colorado, Maya and Liam sat across from each other at the kitchen island, the remains of Tuesday night's stir-fry still on their plates. Maya, a 32-year-old nurse, twirled her fork absently while Liam, 34 and a high school history teacher, scrolled through his phone.

"It's our fourth anniversary next month," Maya said, setting the fork down. "Not just dating—four years since we signed the lease on this place together. Feels like we should mark it somehow."

Liam looked up, smiling. "You're right. Last year we just grilled burgers in the backyard and called it a night. What are you thinking?"

Maya leaned her elbows on the counter. "I keep picturing something low-key but special. Maybe we drive up to Estes Park for the weekend, hike around the lake, stay in that little cabin we saw online. No schedules, just us."

Liam nodded slowly, considering. "I like the idea of getting out of town. But my department meeting is that Friday, and you'd have to swap a shift. What if we keep it closer? Recreate our first date—takeout from that Thai place and a movie marathon on the couch, then surprise each other with one gift that actually means something."

Maya laughed. "You just don't want to pack." She reached over and squeezed his hand. "Okay, compromise: we do the Thai and movie night here, but we also book a Saturday picnic at Red Rocks. Pack the same blanket we used the day we moved in. Simple, but it feels like us."

Liam set his phone aside. "Deal. I'll handle the food if you pick the playlist. And maybe we finally hang that photo from our first hike together."

They talked for another twenty minutes, filling in the small details—who would shop, what time they'd leave—until the dishwasher hummed in the background and the house felt quietly theirs again.


Elena and Marcus shared a modest two-bedroom bungalow in a quiet neighborhood on the outskirts of Denver. After five years together—three of them under the same roof—they treated their anniversary as a chance to pause and choose something meaningful rather than default to routine.

On a Thursday evening they sat at the kitchen table after dinner, laptops closed and phones face-down. Marcus poured two glasses of the leftover red wine and said, “Next Saturday is five years since we met at that farmers’ market. I don’t want to just go to the same Italian place.”

Elena nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I was thinking the same. We could drive up to Estes Park, hike a short trail, and stay overnight. Or we could stay home, cook something ambitious, and actually use the good plates.”

Marcus leaned back, considering. “The mountains sound perfect, but the weather looks iffy and we’d spend half the day in the car. What if we combine it? Saturday we stay in, make that coq au vin recipe we’ve been saving, put on music, and talk without screens. Sunday we do a long walk at Red Rocks and grab coffee afterward.”

Elena smiled. “That feels like us. No pressure, no reservations we have to rush for. I’ll handle the grocery list if you pick the playlist and set the table.”

They spent the next twenty minutes mapping the details: which market to visit Friday after work, whether to invite anyone (they decided against it), and how to keep the day unhurried. By the time they stood to wash the dishes, the plan felt settled and theirs.

The following week they followed it exactly. Saturday evening the house smelled of wine and thyme; they ate slowly, recounted the first awkward conversation at the market stall, and laughed at how little they’d known then. Sunday’s walk under clear skies felt like a quiet exclamation point. No grand gestures, just the two of them choosing, together, how to mark the time they had already shared.


In their modest two-bedroom house on a quiet street in Austin, Texas, Maya and Eli sat at the kitchen table one Saturday morning, coffee mugs in hand. They had lived together for four years, unmarried but fully committed, and their fifth anniversary was approaching in two weeks.

Maya scrolled through her phone. “We could book that cabin in the Hill Country,” she said. “Just us, hiking, maybe a bottle of wine on the porch. Nothing fancy.”

Eli nodded, spreading jam on toast. “That sounds good, but remember last time we tried a weekend trip? You spent half of it on work calls. What if we stay home and actually unplug? Cook something special, put on that playlist from our first date.”

Maya smiled, remembering the cramped apartment and the cheap takeout. “I like that. We could invite your sister over for dessert afterward? Or keep it just us.”

“Just us,” Eli said firmly. “We’ve been so busy with the house repairs and my new job. I want one night where we talk about us, not the leaky faucet.” He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “We could even look at those rings we’ve been pretending not to notice in the shop window.”

Maya laughed, a little nervous. “One step at a time. Anniversary first. How about we compromise? Stay in Friday, then drive out Saturday morning for a picnic by the lake. Simple, cheap, and we both get what we want.”

Eli grinned. “Deal. I’ll handle the grocery list if you pick the playlist.”

They spent the next hour making plans, interrupting each other with memories and small jokes, the ordinary rhythm of two people who had built a life together without needing a ceremony to prove it. Outside, the Texas sun climbed higher, and the house felt like exactly the right place to mark another year.

(Word count: 298)


Maya and Liam sat on the worn sofa in their two-bedroom bungalow on the east side of Austin, Texas, the evening light fading through the kitchen window. They had lived together for four years after dating for two more, still unmarried by choice, and their sixth anniversary was ten days away. The house smelled faintly of the leftover tacos they had shared.

Maya tucked her legs under her. “I don’t want another restaurant dinner,” she said. “We’ve done that every year. It feels like we’re just checking a box.”

Liam set down his glass of iced tea. “Fair. What if we drive out to Enchanted Rock on Saturday? Hike in the morning, then find a quiet spot for lunch. I can pack those turkey-avocado wraps you like and the sparkling water we bought last week.”

She considered it. “That sounds like us. But the forecast says it might rain. We could do a backup: cook something elaborate here Saturday night—maybe that paella recipe we never finished—and then watch the documentary series we’ve been saving.”

He nodded, already pulling up the weather app on his phone. “Rain’s only a thirty percent chance. Let’s plan the hike and keep the paella as Plan B. I’ll handle the food either way. You pick the playlist for the drive.”

Maya smiled and reached for the notebook they kept on the coffee table. Together they listed what to pack: sunscreen, a blanket, extra socks, the portable speaker. Liam added a note to check the car’s tire pressure in the morning. They talked through the details for another twenty minutes, laughing when they remembered the time a sudden storm had soaked them on a similar trip two years earlier. By the time they stood to rinse the dishes, the plan felt settled and theirs.


Emily and David sat together on the worn sofa in their two-bedroom apartment on Chicago’s north side, the late-afternoon light slanting across the hardwood floor. Their cat, Whiskers, dozed on the windowsill. Five years together—three of them sharing this home—felt like a milestone worth marking, yet neither wanted anything flashy.

David set his phone aside. “Anniversary’s in two weeks. Any ideas?”

Emily closed her book and tucked her feet under her. “I keep thinking about that first dinner we cooked. Burnt garlic bread and all. Maybe we do that again—just us, no restaurant.”

He smiled. “I like it. Or we could drive up to the lake for a night. Cabin, hiking, no cell service.”

She considered, tracing a pattern on the cushion. “Work’s slammed for both of us. A staycation might be smarter. We could string up those old fairy lights, order from the Italian place we found last winter, and actually finish a movie for once.”

David nodded. “And write those letters we used to send when we were long-distance. Remember how cheesy they were?”

They laughed, trading memories: the rained-out picnic, the concert tickets he’d hidden in her cereal box, the time they’d gotten lost looking for a speakeasy. Each suggestion bounced between them—practical, personal, never one-sided. Emily listed what they already had in the pantry; David checked the weather and the park’s evening hours.

In the end they settled on a simple plan: homemade pasta, the same recipe from their first night, followed by a walk along the lakefront path and the exchange of small handmade notes. No reservations, no pressure.

Emily leaned into his shoulder. “Feels like us.”

David kissed the top of her head. “Exactly.” Whiskers stretched and jumped down, as if approving. The apartment, ordinary and theirs, already felt ready.


In their sunlit kitchen in a quiet Denver suburb, Lena rinsed breakfast dishes while her partner, Marcus, scrolled through his phone at the table. They had shared the two-bedroom bungalow for four years, ever since deciding that commuting between apartments no longer made sense. Next Saturday marked seven years since they first met at a mutual friend’s barbecue.

Marcus looked up. “We should do something for the anniversary. Nothing huge, but more than takeout and a movie.”

Lena dried her hands and sat across from him. “I was thinking the same thing. We could drive up to Boulder for the day, hike Chautauqua, then grab dinner at that spot we liked last summer.”

Marcus nodded, then hesitated. “That’s nice, but I’ve got a Saturday shift at the clinic that I can’t easily swap. What if we stay local? Picnic in Washington Park, then cook together here. I’ll handle the grill if you pick the playlist and dessert.”

Lena smiled. “That actually sounds better. We can invite no one, just us. I’ll make those lemon bars you always steal from the pan.”

They spent the next twenty minutes listing groceries and arguing lightly over whether to splurge on a decent bottle of wine. Marcus offered to pick it up after work Friday so Lena wouldn’t have to detour. She agreed, then added that they should also write each other a short letter, the way they had on their first anniversary, and read them after dinner.

By the time they finished their coffee, the plan felt settled and theirs. No reservations, no pressure, just the two of them marking the years in the house they had slowly made a home.


In their modest two-bedroom house in a quiet Columbus suburb, Elena and Marcus sat across from each other at the kitchen table on a rainy Saturday afternoon. They had lived together for four years, unmarried but committed, and next Tuesday marked the seventh anniversary of the night they first met at a mutual friend’s barbecue.

Elena stirred her coffee. “I don’t want anything huge. Just us. Maybe we cook that pasta recipe we always talk about but never make.”

Marcus nodded, flipping through a notebook where they kept restaurant ideas. “I like that. Or we could try the new Italian place downtown. Reservations are open. We haven’t dressed up in months.”

She smiled. “True. But last time we went out for an anniversary it felt rushed. I’d rather stay in, put on music, and actually talk.”

He reached across and took her hand. “Okay. Homemade it is. I’ll handle the sauce if you do the salad and dessert. We can open that bottle of wine we bought last summer and never drank.”

Elena leaned back. “Perfect. After dinner we could walk to the park if it stops raining, or just stay on the couch with the lights low. No phones.”

Marcus grinned. “Deal. I’ll pick up the ingredients tomorrow after work. You want flowers or is that too cliché?”

“A single bunch from the grocery store is fine. Nothing fancy.”

They spent the next twenty minutes listing what they needed and laughing about the first anniversary they’d spent eating takeout on the floor of their old apartment. By the time the rain eased, they had a simple plan that felt entirely theirs.

On Tuesday they followed it exactly: the kitchen filled with the smell of garlic and tomatoes, conversation that stretched late, and a quiet walk under streetlights. No grand gestures, just the two of them marking another year the way they lived—together, unhurried, and at home.


In their modest ranch-style home on a quiet street in suburban Denver, Colorado, Maya and Liam sat across from each other at the kitchen island one Thursday evening. Takeout containers from the nearby Thai place sat half-empty between them. Their fifth anniversary of living together—and of being a couple—was just two days away, and they still had no plan.

Maya twirled her fork. “We could book that tasting menu at the new farm-to-table spot downtown. I’ve been wanting to try it for months.”

Liam leaned back, considering. “It’s tempting, but last time we did a fancy restaurant we spent half the night talking about work. I keep thinking about that weekend we drove up to Estes Park and just walked around the lake until it got dark.”

Maya smiled, remembering how they’d argued over the map and then ended up sharing a single overpriced hot chocolate. “Okay, so maybe not the restaurant. What if we packed a real picnic this time—actual cheese and that sourdough you like—and hiked the trail behind the reservoir? We could be back by late afternoon.”

“And then what?” Liam asked. “I don’t want the day to just… end.”

They talked it through while they cleaned up. Maya suggested they cook together afterward—the mushroom risotto they’d never quite gotten right. Liam countered that they should also rewatch the terrible sci-fi movie they’d seen on their first anniversary, the one they still quoted at each other. They laughed about the year they’d tried camping and the tent had leaked, and about the time they’d splurged on concert tickets only to realize they both preferred staying in.

By the time the dishwasher hummed, they’d settled it. Saturday morning they’d hike and picnic. Saturday night they’d cook the risotto, open a decent bottle of wine, and watch the movie on the couch they’d bought together three years earlier. No reservations, no pressure, just the two of them marking the day the way they actually lived.

Maya reached across the island and squeezed Liam’s hand. “That sounds like us.”

“Yeah,” he said. “It does.”


Alex and Jordan sat at their kitchen table in the modest two-bedroom house they rented on the outskirts of Austin, Texas. Evening light filtered through the blinds as they finished leftover pasta. Five years together felt significant, even without a marriage certificate. They had moved in after two years of dating, blending their lives around work, friends, and the occasional weekend hike.

Jordan twirled a fork. "Our anniversary is next month. We should do something that actually feels like us, not some generic restaurant reservation."

Alex nodded, pushing a glass of water aside. "I was thinking the same. Last year we just ordered pizza and watched that documentary. It was nice, but maybe we could mark this one a bit more. What if we took a short trip? Nothing fancy, just a couple nights in the Hill Country. There's that cabin we looked at online."

Jordan considered it, leaning back. "I like the idea of getting away, but the cabin might be booked, and we'd have to arrange time off. What about staying here and cooking a real meal together? We could invite a couple friends over afterward for cake. Keeps it simple and cheap."

Alex smiled. "That could work. Or we combine them. Cook here one night, then drive out for a day hike and picnic the next. No overnight if the cabin's a hassle."

They talked through details: groceries, a playlist of songs from their first year, maybe a small gift each. Jordan suggested writing letters to read later. Alex liked that, adding they could plant a tree in the backyard as a living reminder.

By the time they cleared the dishes, they had a plan. It felt right, practical and personal, the way they had built their life so far. They would mark the day on their terms, together in the home they shared.


Maya and Liam had shared their two-bedroom apartment in Portland for four years, ever since Liam’s lease ended and they decided it made more sense to combine rent than keep paying for two places. On a rainy Tuesday evening they sat at the small kitchen table after dinner, the dishwasher humming in the background.

“Five years next Saturday,” Maya said, stirring the last of her tea. “Feels like we should do something that isn’t just takeout and a movie.”

Liam looked up from the calendar on his phone. “I was thinking the same. We could drive out to the coast, stay overnight in that inn we liked last fall. Or keep it simple—cook something nicer than usual and walk the river trail if the weather clears.”

Maya nodded, considering. “The inn sounds nice, but it’s already booked solid this weekend. I checked this morning. What if we stay here, invite a couple of friends over for dinner Saturday, then just the two of us on Sunday? We could finally use those concert tickets we bought months ago.”

“That works,” Liam said. “I’ll handle the grocery run Friday after work. You still want to try that mushroom risotto recipe?”

“Yeah. And I’ll pick up wine on the way home.” She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “No big speeches, just us marking that we made it this far without killing each other.”

Liam laughed. “Deal. I’ll even do the dishes after.”

They spent the next twenty minutes dividing the remaining tasks—who would text the friends, who would confirm the concert time—then cleared the table together. The decision felt ordinary and exactly right, the kind of quiet agreement that had carried them this far.

Word count: 278.


Elena and Marcus sat at their kitchen table in the modest two-bedroom house they rented on the outskirts of Portland, Oregon. Rain pattered against the windows as they finished leftover pasta from the night before. Five years together felt significant, even without a wedding date on the calendar.

Marcus twirled his fork. “We should do something this weekend. Not just another movie night.”

Elena nodded, pushing her plate aside. “Agreed. I was thinking we could drive up to the coast. Cannon Beach, maybe. Walk the sand, eat fish and chips, stay in that little inn we liked last time.”

He considered it, then shook his head. “Sounds nice, but the forecast is all rain. Plus, we’ve both got early shifts Monday. I don’t want to rush back exhausted.”

She leaned back. “Okay, fair. What about staying here and cooking something special? We could try that Thai recipe we’ve been talking about, open a decent bottle of wine, play some records.”

Marcus smiled. “I like that. Homemade feels right. But maybe we add something extra. Remember how we always said we’d visit the Japanese garden downtown? We could go Saturday afternoon, then come home and cook.”

Elena’s eyes lit up. “That’s perfect. Not too far, not too expensive. We can take photos like we did when we first started dating.”

They spent the next twenty minutes mapping it out: he’d handle grocery shopping Friday after work, she’d pick the wine and playlist. No grand gestures, just time together in the city they called home.

As they cleared the dishes, Marcus squeezed her shoulder. “Five years. Still feels new sometimes.”

Elena laughed softly. “Yeah. This’ll be a good way to mark it.”

They finished the evening planning the menu, already looking forward to the simple weekend ahead.


Emily and Mark sat across from each other at the worn oak table in the kitchen of their three-bedroom house on a quiet street in suburban Ohio. Evening light filtered through the blinds as they finished leftover pasta. Their fifth anniversary was two weeks away, and the conversation had turned to how they might mark it.

Emily set down her fork. “I keep thinking we should do more than just dinner at that Italian place we always go to. Five years living together feels like it deserves something that actually feels like us.”

Mark leaned back, rubbing the back of his neck. “I get that. My boss just piled extra reports on me, so I can’t disappear for a long weekend without it turning into a mess at work. A cabin up north would be nice, but the drive plus the cost… I’m not sure.”

She nodded, tracing the rim of her water glass. “Same here with my shifts at the clinic. What if we stay home but make it count? We could cook that complicated paella recipe we’ve been talking about forever, open a decent bottle of wine, and actually sit outside on the patio without checking our phones.”

Mark smiled a little. “That sounds better than fighting traffic. We could exchange those small gifts we already picked out and then take the dogs for a long walk at the metro park the next morning. No pressure, just us.”

Emily reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “Yeah. We’ll put on some music, maybe dance badly in the kitchen like we did that first year. It’ll feel real, not like we’re trying to impress anyone.”

They spent the next twenty minutes mapping out the grocery list and choosing a playlist, both of them relaxing into the plan. By the time they stood to clear the dishes, the anniversary no longer felt like another obligation. It felt like a quiet promise they were making to each other in the house they already shared.


In their modest ranch-style house on the outskirts of Austin, Texas, Lena and Marcus sat at the kitchen island one Thursday evening, leftover tacos from the food truck still in takeout containers between them. They had been together eight years and sharing the home for five. Their anniversary fell on a Tuesday next month.

Lena set down her phone. “We should actually plan something this time. Last year we just ordered pizza and watched that documentary.”

Marcus nodded, wiping his hands. “Yeah. I was thinking the same. Work’s been crazy, but I can take the Monday off. What do you want to do?”

They listed options without rushing. A weekend cabin two hours away felt tempting but expensive with gas and last-minute rates. A fancy downtown dinner sounded nice until they remembered the parking and the wait. Lena suggested cooking the same meal they had on their first date—grilled cheese and tomato soup, only better this time, with a bottle of wine. Marcus liked the idea of staying in but wanted to get out of the house at least once.

They settled on a compromise that felt like them: an early morning hike at the nearby greenbelt, then coming home to cook together, put on records, and look through the box of old photos they kept in the hall closet. No reservations, no big spend, just the two of them marking the day the way they actually lived.

Lena reached across the island and squeezed his hand. “That sounds perfect.”

Marcus smiled. “I’ll pick up the wine this weekend. You handle the soup recipe?”

They finished the tacos, rinsed the plates, and talked about nothing in particular for another twenty minutes, already looking forward to the Tuesday that would feel ordinary and special at the same time.


Alex and Jordan sat at their kitchen table in the modest two-bedroom house they rented on the outskirts of Columbus, Ohio. Evening light filtered through the blinds as they finished leftover pasta. Five years together felt significant, even without a marriage certificate. They had moved in two years earlier after Jordan’s lease ended, blending their lives around shared bills, a rescue dog named Scout, and weekend grocery runs.

“We should do something for the anniversary,” Jordan said, twirling her fork. “Not huge, but not nothing.”

Alex nodded, pushing his plate aside. “I was thinking the same. We could cook that steak recipe we tried last year, open a decent bottle of wine, maybe watch the movie from our first date.”

Jordan smiled. “That’s sweet, but I want to get out of the house a little. Remember that cabin we stayed at near Hocking Hills? It’s only an hour away. We could go Friday after work, hike Saturday, come back Sunday.”

Alex considered it. Their jobs—his at a warehouse, hers at a clinic—left them tired, but a short trip sounded doable. “We’d have to find someone for Scout. Your sister?”

“She’d take him. And we can keep it cheap. Pack sandwiches, no fancy restaurants.”

They pulled out their phones, checking calendars and a booking site. The cabin had an opening. Alex reserved it while Jordan texted her sister. They talked through details: packing layers for the unpredictable weather, leaving a note for the neighbor about the mail.

By the time they stood to load the dishwasher, the plan felt settled and theirs. No grand gestures, just time together away from routines. Scout wandered in, tail wagging, as if sensing the upcoming adventure. Alex scratched the dog’s ears. “We’ll make it count,” he said.

Jordan leaned against the counter. “We always do.” They washed dishes side by side, already looking forward to Friday.


In their modest ranch-style house on the outskirts of Denver, Colorado, Lena and Marcus sat across from each other at the kitchen island on a quiet Sunday afternoon. They had been together for five years and sharing this home for two, still unmarried by choice, and their anniversary was two weeks away. Lena, a graphic designer, scrolled through her laptop while Marcus, a high school teacher, chopped vegetables for dinner.

“I keep thinking we should do something a little more special this year,” Lena said, looking up. “Not just dinner out. Maybe a night at that cabin we stayed at last fall, the one with the hot tub.”

Marcus paused, knife in hand. “I like that, but it’s peak season. Prices are high, and I’ve got papers to grade. What if we stay here and make it ourselves? I could grill those steaks you like, we string up some lights in the backyard, play the playlist from our first road trip.”

Lena considered it, tapping her pen. “That’s sweet, and cheaper. We could invite a couple of friends over for dessert after, or keep it just us. I found this vineyard tour nearby—half-day, not too far. We could do that Saturday and come back for your grill night.”

They talked through the details: her freelance deadline, his after-school club, the weather forecast. Marcus suggested they write each other letters like they used to, to read after dinner. Lena agreed, adding that they should take a photo in the same spot where they’d first said “I love you” in the living room.

By the time the vegetables were in the pan, they had settled on the vineyard in the morning, a homemade dinner under the lights, and those letters. No grand gestures, just the two of them marking another year of building a life together in the house they both called home.


Alex and Jordan sat at their kitchen table in the modest two-bedroom house they rented on the outskirts of Columbus, Ohio. Rain tapped against the windows as they finished leftover pasta from the night before. Five years together felt significant, even without a marriage certificate.

Jordan twirled a fork. “We should do something for the anniversary next month. Not huge, but not just another Tuesday either.”

Alex nodded, pushing a stray noodle around the plate. “I was thinking the same. We could cook that fancy meal we always talk about—the one with the wine reduction. Stay in, put on music, no dishes until morning.”

Jordan smiled. “That sounds nice. Or we could drive up to the lake for the weekend. Rent a cabin, hike a little, just be together without the usual routine.”

Alex considered it, leaning back in the chair. “The cabin would be peaceful, but the drive is long and we’d spend half the time packing. Plus the weather this time of year can turn. Cooking here keeps it simple and cheap. We already have most of the ingredients.”

Jordan reached across the table and squeezed Alex’s hand. “You’re right about the cost. We’ve been saving for that new couch. Maybe we compromise: cook the special dinner Friday night, then spend Saturday exploring that new park downtown. Picnic lunch, walk around, come home early.”

Alex grinned. “I like that. We mark it without overdoing it. I’ll handle the grocery list if you pick the playlist.”

They talked a little longer about favorite songs and whether to invite anyone else—deciding against it, wanting the day just for the two of them. By the time the rain stopped, the plan felt settled and theirs. They cleared the table together, already looking forward to the small celebration that would feel exactly right.


Elena and Marcus sat across from each other at the small oak table in their Portland bungalow, leftover Thai takeout cooling between them. Rain streaked the kitchen window as they finished a typical Tuesday. Marcus twirled his fork, then set it down. “Five years next month. Feels like we should mark it somehow.”

Elena nodded, pushing her plate aside. “I know. We’ve been talking around it for weeks. I keep picturing that weekend we spent at the coast right after we moved in together. But work’s slammed for both of us.”

Marcus leaned back, considering. “A full weekend away might be tight with my project deadline. What if we keep it closer? That Italian place downtown—the one with the patio? We could dress up, actually leave the house after dark.”

Elena smiled but shook her head. “Reservations there book out a month ahead, and last time the wait felt more stressful than romantic. I was thinking something quieter. Remember the park by the river where we had our first real conversation? We could pack a picnic, sit under those same trees.”

“That’s actually perfect,” Marcus said, warming to the idea. “We could make it ourselves—your pesto pasta, my chocolate cake. No crowds, no rush. Then maybe come home, put on that playlist from our first year, and just… be here.”

Elena reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “I like that. It feels like us—simple, ours. We can still buy a decent bottle of wine.”

They spent the next twenty minutes mapping it out: grocery list, weather backup plan if it rained again, a small gift each had already quietly started thinking about. By the time they stood to clear the dishes, the anniversary no longer felt like another item on a to-do list. It felt like something they were building together, the same way they had built this home.


Emily and David shared a two-story colonial in a quiet suburb of Columbus, Ohio, where they had lived together for three years. On a rainy Thursday evening, they sat at the kitchen island after work, leftover pasta cooling in takeout containers. Their fifth anniversary fell the following Saturday.

David scrolled through restaurant listings on his phone. “We could try that new Italian place downtown. Reservations are still open.”

Emily shook her head, stirring her tea. “Last time we went out for a big night it felt rushed. I’d rather not spend four hundred dollars just to sit in traffic.” She glanced at the calendar on the fridge. “What if we stay here? I could make that lemon-herb chicken you liked last month, and we open the bottle of wine your sister gave us.”

David set the phone down. “Home sounds good, but I want it to feel special, not like a regular Friday. How about we hike the trail at Highbanks Metro Park in the morning? We haven’t been since last fall. Pack a picnic—your potato salad, my brownies—and eat by the river.”

Emily smiled. “That works. Then we come back, shower, and watch the movie we saw on our first date. The one with the terrible ending we still argue about.”

They spent the next hour planning details: David would buy fresh bread and fruit after work Friday; Emily would prep the salad Thursday night. They debated whether to invite friends for dessert later and decided against it, wanting the day to themselves. By the time they loaded the dishwasher, the plan felt settled and theirs.

Saturday arrived clear and cool. They laced their boots in the garage, packed the cooler together, and drove the twenty minutes north, talking about nothing important except how five years had passed faster than either expected.


Emily and Ryan sat at their kitchen table in the modest bungalow they rented on the outskirts of Portland, Oregon. Evening light filtered through the window as they finished leftover pasta. Five years together, three of them sharing this home, and their anniversary was two weeks away.

Ryan set down his fork. “We should do something. Not just another Tuesday night.”

Emily nodded, twisting her napkin. “I was thinking the same. Remember our first date? That terrible movie and the diner that never refilled the coffee.”

He laughed. “We could recreate it. Or skip the bad movie.”

She leaned forward. “I want something that feels like us now. Not pretending we’re still twenty-two.”

They listed ideas. Ryan suggested a weekend cabin in the mountains—quiet, just the two of them, no phones. Emily liked the sound but worried about the drive and the cost of last-minute bookings. She proposed a long hike followed by cooking a real meal at home, something they rarely made time for.

“Compromise,” Ryan said. “Hike Saturday morning, then we come back and I finally try that risotto recipe you’ve been saving. I’ll even do the dishes.”

Emily smiled. “And I’ll pick up those flowers you like from the market. The ones that last.”

They talked through the details: who’d pack the snacks, whether to invite anyone (they decided no), and how to keep it simple so it didn’t turn into another chore. Ryan reached across the table and took her hand. “Five years. Still choosing this.”

Emily squeezed back. “Still choosing you.”

They stayed there another half hour, sketching a grocery list on the back of an envelope, already looking forward to the day. The house felt quieter afterward, but in a good way—like they had given the anniversary a shape that belonged only to them.


Maya and Liam sat across from each other at the small kitchen table in their rented bungalow on the outskirts of Portland, Oregon. Rain pattered against the windows as they finished leftover pasta from the night before. Their third anniversary was two weeks away, and neither had mentioned it until now.

Liam set down his fork. “We should do something this year. Not just order takeout and watch a movie like last time.”

Maya nodded, pushing her plate aside. “I was thinking the same. We’ve been together longer than some of our married friends. Feels like it deserves more than the usual.”

They listed ideas. A weekend cabin in the mountains sounded appealing but expensive after recent car repairs. A fancy dinner downtown would be nice, yet they both preferred quieter nights. Liam suggested hiking the trail where they had first held hands, then cooking dinner at home afterward. Maya liked the thought but pointed out the weather forecast called for more rain.

“What if we stay in and recreate our first date?” she offered. “That terrible pizza place closed, but we could make our own and play the same playlist.”

Liam smiled. “And afterward we could look through those old photos we never printed. The ones from the road trip to the coast.”

Maya reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “That feels right. Nothing big, just us remembering how we got here.”

They spent the next hour mapping out the evening: grocery list, playlist, a cheap photo book they could order online. No grand gestures, just a shared plan that fit their life together in the house they had chosen, unmarried but fully committed. When they finally stood to wash the dishes, the decision felt settled, comfortable, and entirely their own.


In their cozy bungalow on a quiet street in Columbus, Ohio, Emily Hayes and her partner of five years, Marcus Rivera, lingered over leftover pasta one Tuesday evening. The anniversary of the rainy afternoon they had first talked for hours in a campus bookstore was approaching fast, and both felt the need to mark it somehow.

Emily stacked the plates. “I keep thinking we should do more than just dinner out. We’ve lived together three years now. It feels bigger.”

Marcus wiped the table, nodding. “Work’s been crazy for both of us. I don’t want something that turns into another to-do list. What if we stay home Saturday, cook that paella recipe we never finished, and then walk over to the reservoir like we used to?”

Emily considered it, leaning against the counter. “I like the walking part. We could pack the old blanket and just sit. No phones. Maybe print a few pictures from the last year and look at them there.”

Marcus grinned. “And I’ll finally fix that loose board on the back porch so we can eat outside if the weather holds. You pick the music.”

They spent the next twenty minutes mapping it out: grocery list, a modest budget for ingredients and a cheap bottle of wine, whose turn it was to choose the playlist. Emily suggested they each write a short note about one thing they still liked discovering about the other; Marcus agreed, saying he already had an idea. No grand gestures, no overnight trip they couldn’t really afford. Just the two of them, the house they shared, and the ordinary evening they had chosen together.

By the time the dishwasher hummed, the plan felt settled and theirs.


Sarah and Mike had shared their modest two-bedroom house in a quiet Columbus suburb for four years. On a rainy Tuesday evening, they sat at the kitchen table after dinner, leftover pasta cooling between them. Their fifth anniversary as a couple was two weeks away, and neither had mentioned it until now.

Mike set down his fork. “We should do something this year. Not just dinner at that Italian place again.”

Sarah nodded, wiping a crumb from the table. “Agreed. Last year felt like we were going through the motions. What are you thinking?”

He leaned back. “I looked at flights. A long weekend in Asheville? Hiking, some good food, no work emails.”

Sarah considered it, tracing the wood grain with her finger. “That sounds nice, but the dog. And my sister’s wedding is the week after. I don’t want to be exhausted.” She paused. “What if we stay here but make it special? Rent a cabin an hour away, just us, no phones after six.”

Mike smiled. “I like that. We could cook together, play those board games we never finish. Or drive out to the state park for the day and come back to a fire.”

They talked through the details: booking the cabin Thursday through Sunday, packing the cooler with steaks and wine, leaving a key with the neighbor for the dog. Sarah mentioned she wanted one evening just talking on the porch, no agenda. Mike suggested they write down a few things they were grateful for about the last five years and read them aloud.

By the time they stood to load the dishwasher, the plan felt settled and theirs. Sarah rinsed a plate. “Five years. Still can’t believe we made it through that first apartment with the leaky roof.”

Mike laughed and wrapped an arm around her waist. “We’re better at this now. This weekend will be good.”

They turned off the kitchen light and headed upstairs, already looking forward to the small trip that would mark the years they had built together.


Maya and Liam sat at their kitchen table in the modest two-bedroom house they rented on the outskirts of Portland, Oregon. Evening light filtered through the blinds as they finished dinner leftovers. Their fifth anniversary of living together—and of being a couple—was two weeks away.

Liam scrolled through his phone. “We could book that cabin we talked about last year. Just two nights, nothing fancy.”

Maya shook her head, pushing her plate aside. “The drive is three hours each way, and we’d spend half the time unpacking. I’d rather stay here and actually enjoy it.” She pulled a notepad closer. “What if we cook something special? That risotto you like, plus a cake. We could invite your sister over for dessert.”

Liam considered it, tapping the table. “I like the cooking part. But inviting people turns it into a party. This feels more like our thing.” He reached for her hand. “Maybe we walk the river trail in the morning, then come back and do whatever we want. No schedule.”

Maya smiled. “That sounds right. We could pick up flowers from the market on the way home. Nothing over the top.” She jotted a few notes: trail, market, risotto, no guests.

They spent the next twenty minutes listing small details—what wine to buy, whether to take Friday off work. Liam suggested a playlist of songs from their first year together. Maya added that they should take a photo in the backyard, the same spot as last year.

By the time they stood to wash dishes, the plan felt settled and theirs. No reservations, no pressure, just the two of them marking the day in the home they shared. Liam rinsed a plate and glanced over. “Five years already.”

Maya dried her hands and leaned against the counter. “Yeah. And it still feels like the right place.” They finished the dishes in comfortable quiet, already looking forward to the simple weekend they had chosen together.


In their modest ranch house on the outskirts of Denver, Elena and Marcus sat at the kitchen island on a rainy Thursday evening, leftover pizza boxes pushed aside. Their five-year anniversary as a couple was two weeks away, and the calendar on the fridge already had a small heart doodled in the date.

Elena flipped through a travel brochure she’d picked up at work. “We could drive up to Estes Park for the weekend. Rent a little cabin, hike around the lake. Nothing fancy, just us and the mountains.”

Marcus leaned forward, elbows on the granite. “I like that. We’ve been talking about getting out of the city since last winter. But the weather’s still iffy up there. What if we stay put and cook something ambitious? That osso buco recipe your mom sent? We could set the table with the good plates we never use.”

Elena laughed and tossed the brochure aside. “You just want an excuse to open that bottle of Barolo we’ve been saving.” She reached across and squeezed his hand. “Honestly, though, I don’t need a big production. Remember the night we moved in? We ate Chinese takeout on the floor because the furniture hadn’t arrived. That felt more like us than any restaurant.”

Marcus nodded, thinking. “Okay, compromise. We stay home Saturday, cook together, maybe put on that playlist from our first road trip. Then Sunday we walk the High Line Canal trail—the same stretch where you finally told me you loved me. Cheap, quiet, and we don’t have to pack.”

Elena grinned. “Deal. I’ll handle the grocery list if you promise not to burn the risotto this time.”

They spent the next twenty minutes trading ideas for a small gift exchange—nothing expensive, just something handmade. By the time the rain stopped, the plan felt settled, ordinary, and exactly right.


In their modest two-bedroom house on a quiet street in Columbus, Ohio, Maya and Liam sat at the kitchen table after dinner, the dishwasher humming in the background. They had lived together for three years, unmarried but committed, and their fifth anniversary of meeting was approaching in two weeks.

Maya scrolled through her phone. "We should do something special this year. Not just pizza and a movie like last time."

Liam nodded, wiping the table. "Agreed. Remember how we met at that farmers' market? Maybe we could go back there, grab some stuff, and cook a big meal together."

"That sounds nice, but I was thinking of getting out of the house," Maya said. "A weekend hike in Hocking Hills? We could stay in a cabin, nothing fancy."

Liam considered it, leaning back in his chair. "I like the idea of being outdoors. But with my work schedule, a full weekend might be tight. What if we do a day trip? Picnic at the park where we had our first real date, then dinner at that Italian place downtown."

Maya smiled, setting her phone down. "Compromise. Picnic first, then dinner. We can pack sandwiches and that wine we like. And maybe exchange small gifts—nothing expensive."

"Perfect," Liam said. He stood and walked over to hug her from behind. "I'll handle the reservations and the picnic basket. You pick the gifts?"

"Deal. I'll look for something that reminds us of that market day." Maya turned to kiss his cheek. They spent the next half hour listing ideas: a playlist of songs from their early days, photos to print. By the time they headed to bed, the plan felt settled and theirs, a simple way to mark five years of sharing this home and building a life together, one ordinary conversation at a time.

The next morning, they confirmed the details over coffee, both contributing equally to the arrangements, excited for the day ahead.


In their modest two-bedroom house on the outskirts of Austin, Texas, Maya and Eli sat across from each other at the kitchen table one Tuesday evening. They had been together for five years, sharing the space for the last three, and their anniversary was just two weeks away. Neither had mentioned it yet, but the date hung in the air like the faint smell of last night's chili.

Maya stirred her tea and looked up. "I was thinking we should do something this year. Not just order pizza and stream a movie."

Eli nodded, setting down his phone. "Yeah, I was wondering about that. Five years feels like it deserves more than the usual. What did you have in mind?"

She shrugged. "A weekend trip? Maybe drive out to the Hill Country, stay in a cabin. We could hike, cook together, just be away from work emails."

Eli considered it, rubbing the back of his neck. "That sounds nice, but we've got that big project deadline the week after. I don't want to come back exhausted. What if we stay here and make it special at home? I could grill those steaks we like, and we pick a new restaurant for dessert later."

Maya smiled, reaching across to squeeze his hand. "Compromise? We do a day trip Saturday—maybe to that lake we like—and then Sunday we stay in, cook, and actually talk without screens."

"Deal," Eli said. "I'll look up the weather and pack a cooler. You handle the playlist?"

They spent the next hour mapping it out, laughing over old photos on Maya's laptop, both leaning in as they planned the small details that would make the day theirs.

(Word count: 278)


Alex and Jordan sat at their kitchen table in the modest two-bedroom house they rented on the outskirts of Portland, Oregon, the late afternoon sun slanting through the windows. They had lived together for three years, unmarried but committed, and tomorrow marked five years since their first date at a rainy coffee shop downtown.

Jordan, a graphic designer who worked remotely, stirred their tea and looked across at Alex, who taught high school history and had just finished grading papers. “We should do something special,” Jordan said. “Not just another pizza night. This feels like a milestone.”

Alex nodded, setting down a mug. “Agreed. We could go out to that Italian place we like, but reservations are tight this weekend. Or we stay in and cook something ambitious. Remember how we burned the risotto last time?” They both laughed.

Jordan leaned forward. “What if we combine it? I’ll handle the grocery run tomorrow morning for a proper dinner—maybe that Thai curry recipe we’ve been meaning to try. Then we could take an evening walk along the river trail. It’s been ages since we did that without rushing.”

Alex considered it, tapping a pen against the table. “That sounds perfect. Low-key but intentional. We could even pack a small picnic dessert to eat by the water. No phones, just us talking about the last five years—the move here, the job changes, everything.”

They spent the next half hour mapping it out together: Jordan would pick up ingredients and a bottle of wine, Alex would prep the kitchen and choose a playlist of songs from their early dates. They debated adding a small gift exchange but decided against it, preferring the shared experience.

By evening, the plan felt solid. As they cleared the table, Jordan squeezed Alex’s hand. “Five years. Who would’ve thought?”

Alex smiled. “Us, apparently. Tomorrow’s going to be good.”

They headed to the living room to watch a movie, already looking forward to marking the day in their own quiet way.


Maya and Liam sat at their kitchen table in the modest ranch house they rented on the outskirts of Denver, the late afternoon sun filtering through the blinds. They had lived together for three years, unmarried but committed, sharing bills, a rescue dog named Scout, and the quiet rhythms of suburban life. Tomorrow marked five years since they first met at a hiking meetup.

Liam flipped through a local events app on his phone. "We could do that new Italian place downtown. Reservations are still open."

Maya stirred her tea, considering. "It's pricey, and parking's a nightmare on weekends. Plus, Scout needs his evening walk."

He nodded. "True. What about a picnic in the park? We could pack sandwiches and that wine we got last month."

She smiled but shook her head. "Weather's calling for rain by evening. Remember last time we tried that?"

They both laughed, recalling the sudden downpour that had soaked their blanket. Liam suggested a hike in the nearby foothills, something they both loved. Maya countered that her work week had been exhausting; she preferred something low-key.

"How about we stay in?" she proposed. "Cook that Thai recipe we bookmarked, put on a movie, and just talk. No pressure."

Liam set his phone down. "I like that. We can light some candles, maybe play cards after. It's our night, not a performance."

Maya reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "Exactly. Five years, and we're still figuring it out together. That's worth celebrating simply."

They spent the next hour planning the menu, dividing tasks: Liam would handle groceries after work, Maya would prep the spices. Scout dozed at their feet as they mapped out the evening, the decision settling comfortably between them like the home they had built. In the end, it felt right—not grand, but theirs.


In their modest two-bedroom house on the outskirts of Columbus, Ohio, Maya and Liam sat at the kitchen table after dinner, the dishwasher humming in the background. They had lived together for four years, unmarried but committed, and their fifth anniversary as a couple was two weeks away. Maya, a graphic designer who worked remotely, flipped through a notebook while Liam, a high school history teacher, rinsed the last of the plates.

“We should do something special this year,” Maya said, looking up. “Not just dinner at that Italian place we always go to.”

Liam dried his hands and sat down across from her. “I was thinking the same thing. Five years feels like a milestone. What if we took a long weekend? Drive up to Lake Erie, rent a cabin?”

Maya considered it, tapping her pen. “That could be nice. Quiet, no crowds. But we’d have to find a pet sitter for the dog, and I’m not sure I want to spend the whole time in the car.” She smiled. “What about staying home and cooking something elaborate together? We could invite a couple of friends over for dessert afterward.”

Liam nodded, leaning forward. “I like the idea of staying put. We’ve both been slammed at work. Maybe we start with a hike at Highbanks Metro Park in the morning—something we used to do when we first moved in. Then come back, make that paella recipe we never tried, and just… talk. No phones.”

Maya reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “That sounds perfect. We can pick up fresh ingredients Saturday morning at the market. I’ll handle the shopping list if you plan the playlist.”

They spent the next twenty minutes mapping it out, laughing about the time they’d burned the first meal they cooked together. By the time they stood to load the dishwasher, the plan felt settled: a simple, shared day that marked how far they’d come without needing anything fancy. Later, as they walked the dog around the block, they talked about adding a small photo album of the day, something to look back on when they eventually decided about marriage. The evening air was cool, and for once, neither of them felt rushed.


In their modest bungalow on the outskirts of Austin, Texas, Elena and Marcus sat across from each other at the worn oak table after dinner, the dishwasher humming in the background. Five years of living together had brought them here, an unmarried couple whose lives had quietly intertwined through shared bills, late-night talks, and a rescue mutt named Scout who now slept at their feet. Their anniversary was two weeks away, and the question of how to mark it hung between them like the Texas humidity.

Elena leaned forward, tracing the rim of her coffee mug. “I keep thinking we should do something bigger this year. Maybe drive out to the Hill Country for a night, hike in the morning, then find a little inn with a porch swing. We’ve never really gotten away just the two of us.”

Marcus nodded, pushing his glasses up. “I like that. It feels like us—simple, no crowds. But the car’s been acting up, and I don’t want us stranded. What if we stay close instead? I could book that farm-to-table place downtown we’ve talked about, then come home and actually finish the photo album we started last Christmas.”

She smiled, reaching for his hand. “Compromise, then. We do the dinner out, but we spend Saturday morning at the state park nearby. Pack a thermos, let Scout run. No inn, just us coming back here afterward. I’ll handle the reservation if you pick the trail.”

They spent the next twenty minutes mapping it out: Elena searching menus on her phone while Marcus checked weather and trail conditions. He suggested they each write a short letter to read over dessert, something they’d never done. She agreed, already imagining the words. By the time they stood to clear the table, the plan felt settled and theirs—an evening that would acknowledge the years without needing a ceremony to make them count. Scout thumped his tail as if in approval.