The first Tuesday of October had been unseasonably warm, and so was their apartment. Lena stood at the kitchen counter, carefully drizzling a balsamic glaze over a plate of sliced heirloom tomatoes. The fan in the window whirred, doing little more than pushing the humid air around. In the living room, Mark was on his hands and knees, wrestling with the tangled cords behind the television.

“I still say a movie is a bad idea,” he grunted, finally managing to plug the streaming stick into the correct port. “We’ll end up scrolling for an hour and then falling asleep at nine.”

“We are not falling asleep at nine,” Lena replied, not looking up from her precise work. “And I queued up the same film we watched in the theater that first night. No scrolling required.” She carried the plate to the coffee table, where two glasses of cheap Chianti were already waiting. It was the same wine they’d drunk on their third date, a minor detail Mark had been impressed she remembered.

He stood up, brushing dust from his knees, and accepted a glass. “The one with the long tracking shot through the restaurant? I remember you whispered that the lead actor had ‘nervous hands.’”

“He does,” she said, settling onto the couch beside him. “And you shushed me, very politely.”

He smiled, a familiar, easy expression. “I was trying to be a gentleman. For our anniversary, I also got us the good takeout.” He gestured toward the kitchen, where the white paper bag from their favorite Thai place sat, its fragrant steam escaping into the still air.

“I saw,” she said, nudging his shoulder with her own. “Perfect.”

He started the movie, and the opening credits flickered to life. They sat in a comfortable silence, the city sounds filtering through the open window. He reached for her hand, his thumb tracing a slow circle on her knuckles. She leaned her head against his shoulder, the day’s tension finally leaving her body. It was a quiet, unremarkable night, and it was exactly theirs.


The rain fell in a steady, silver curtain outside their apartment window, blurring the city lights into soft, orange smears. Inside, the air was warm with the scent of garlic and rosemary. Lena stood at the stove, carefully stirring a pan of risotto. It was a dish she’d attempted only once before, with disastrous results, but tonight felt special.

From the living room, she heard the soft clink of wine glasses. Marcus was setting the small table by the window, a task he took on with quiet precision. He smoothed a wrinkle from the linen tablecloth and placed the candle—a stubby, vanilla-scented pillar from the back of a drawer—in its center.

“How’s the masterpiece coming?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that carried over the hiss of the pan.

“Don’t jinx it,” Lena warned, though a smile touched her lips. She added a final pat of butter, watching it melt into a glossy sheen. “I think it’s actually… creamy.”

Marcus crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. He smelled of the cedar soap he used and a faint trace of the cold rain from his earlier walk to the corner store for the wine. “It smells incredible,” he murmured. “Happy anniversary.”

She leaned back into him, the warmth of his body a comfort against the cool evening. “Happy anniversary,” she echoed. “Can you believe it’s been three years?”

He gave her a gentle squeeze before releasing her to fetch the plates. “Some days it feels like we just met. Other days, I can’t remember what my life was like before you were in it.”

They moved around the small kitchen in a familiar dance—she ladled the risotto, he poured the wine. Finally, they sat opposite each other, the candle flame flickering between them. The only sounds were the gentle scrape of forks on ceramic and the rhythmic drumming of the rain. It wasn’t a grand gesture, but in the quiet comfort of their shared space, it was everything.


The rain tapped a steady rhythm against the apartment windows as Daniel pulled the roasting pan from the oven. The kitchen was warm, filled with the savory scent of rosemary and garlic. He set the chicken on the stovetop to rest, wiping his hands on a dish towel. Across the small living room, Lena was on her knees, arranging two mismatched pillar candles on the coffee table. A worn copy of *The Unbearable Lightness of Being* sat beside them, a silent nod to the book they’d both been reading on the night they met.

“How’s the bird?” she asked, not looking up as she nudged a candle a millimeter to the left.

“Resting,” Daniel replied. He walked over and knelt beside her, examining her handiwork. “Needs more wax, fewer fingerprints.”

She swatted his arm. “It’s rustic.”

“It’s our fourth anniversary, not a barn raising,” he teased, but his eyes were soft. He picked up the lighter and flicked it, touching the flame to each wick. The small flames danced, casting a warm glow over their faces.

Lena leaned against him, her head finding the familiar spot on his shoulder. “Remember our first date? You were so nervous you spilled coffee on my copy of the book.”

“I was trying to impress you with my profound literary insights,” he said, wrapping an arm around her. “The coffee was a strategic distraction.”

She laughed, a quiet, genuine sound that filled the room more than any music could. “It worked.” She sat up, her expression turning more serious. “I got you something. It’s not much.”

She handed him a small, flat box. Inside was a leather bookmark, his initials embossed in the corner. He ran his thumb over the smooth grain. “It’s perfect,” he said, his voice low. “Now I can stop using old receipts.”

He stood, pulling her to her feet. “Dinner’s ready. And I’m not saying what I got you until after you’ve tried the potatoes.”

As they moved to the small table, the candles on the coffee table flickered, their light a small, steady beacon against the rainy night outside.


The scent of garlic and rosemary drifted from the kitchen, where Ben was carefully stirring a pan of risotto. In the living room, Maya was on her knees by the coffee table, adjusting the placement of two tapered candles in their simple brass holders. Their small apartment, usually cluttered with the detritus of their busy weeks—a stray laptop charger, a stack of unread mail—had been tidied and subdued.

“The good parmesan or the pre-shredded?” Ben called out, his voice a low hum over the gentle sizzle.

“Good parmesan,” Maya replied without hesitation, smoothing a wrinkle from the linen napkin she’d just laid down. “This is a special occasion. We’re not savages.”

He chuckled. “Right. Seven years. We’ve earned the twenty-dollar cheese.”

She smiled, a private warmth spreading through her. Seven years since that awkward first date at the dive bar with the sticky floors, where they’d talked until the lights came up. They’d both forgotten the exact date until a shared calendar notification pinged on their phones that morning. A quiet night in felt right, a deliberate pause in their shared life.

Maya stood, crossing to the small record player in the corner and running a finger along the stack of vinyl before selecting an old Van Morrison album. The first crackling notes of “Moondance” filled the room just as Ben carried in two mismatched bowls of risotto.

“Smells incredible,” she said, meeting him at the small table they’d set by the window.

“Tastes even better,” he promised, setting the bowls down. He pulled out her chair, a small, old-fashioned gesture he only did on birthdays and anniversaries.

They sat, and for a moment, there was only the soft music and the comfortable silence of two people deeply familiar with each other. Ben lifted his glass of wine. Maya mirrored him, her eyes meeting his over the rim.

“To seven years,” he said.

“To the next seven,” she replied, and their glasses clinked with a soft, clear note.


The apartment still smelled faintly of the lemon-scented cleaner Elena had used that afternoon, a scent she now associated with anticipation. She was in the kitchen, carefully sliding thick slices of sourdough into the oven to warm, the small, worn velvet box from her grandmother’s jewelry case tucked safely in the pocket of her cardigan.

In the living room, Mark was hunched over the coffee table, his brow furrowed in concentration. A precarious tower of sofa cushions stood before him, draped with the fleece blanket from the back of the couch. He was trying to rig a sheet from the curtain rod to the tower, his tongue peeking out from the corner of his mouth. “It’s not exactly architectural digest,” he muttered, giving a corner a final, decisive tuck. “But it’s a fortress.”

Elena walked in, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “A very romantic fortress,” she said, her voice warm. She watched him adjust a small string of battery-powered fairy lights, coiling them around a cushion. It was a small, silly thing, but it was so perfectly him—putting in the effort not for a grand gesture, but for a shared, private joke.

The timer in the kitchen buzzed. “Your turn,” she said, nodding toward the oven. “The bread should be perfect.”

Mark stood, his knees cracking, and gave her a quick, grateful smile. He disappeared into the kitchen, and she heard the clatter of the oven door and the soft thud of the bread board on the counter. Alone for a moment, she pulled the velvet box from her pocket. It wasn’t an engagement ring. It was a simple silver band, a promise of a different kind, a symbol of choosing this, choosing them, every single day. She placed it on the small table beside two glasses of wine, just as Mark returned carrying a plate of bread and a small bowl of olive oil. He saw the box, then looked at her, his question unspoken. She simply nodded.


The afternoon sun slanted through the kitchen window, illuminating a fine dusting of flour on the counter. Maya was elbow-deep in a bowl, attempting a sourdough recipe she’d found online. Across the room, Liam was on his laptop, the soft click of the trackpad a counterpoint to the rhythmic thud of her kneading.

“So,” he said, not looking up, “the big ten is next month. Ten years. We should do something.”

Maya paused, wiping her forehead with the back of her wrist. “I know. I’ve been thinking about it. My first instinct was a trip. Maybe back to that B&B in Vermont where we went that first fall?”

Liam leaned back, stretching. “Tempting. But remember the plumbing in that place? A decade later, it’s probably held together by rust and good intentions.” He smiled, taking the sting out of the words. “What about that new omakase place downtown? We could get dressed up, make a night of it.”

“We could,” Maya said, returning to her dough. “But we did the fancy dinner for year five. And year seven. It’s wonderful, but… it feels like celebrating an institution, not us.”

He closed his laptop and came to stand beside her, watching her work. “Fair point. So what says ‘us’?”

Maya was quiet for a moment, shaping the dough into a loose ball. “Remember when we first moved in here? The mattress was on the floor, we had one pot and a French press, and we spent that whole first weekend building the bookshelves and eating pizza straight from the box.”

Liam chuckled. “And you got paint in my hair, and I stepped in the roller tray.”

“Exactly,” she said, looking at him. “What if we just… recreate that? Not the mess, but the feeling. We order from Gino’s, we put on that same playlist, we turn off our phones, and we just hang out. No reservations, no travel, no pressure. Just us, in the home we’ve made, celebrating the fact that we still like being here together.”

Liam considered it, then a slow smile spread across his face. He reached over and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “You know, that sounds more like us than Vermont ever did.” He picked up a stray piece of flour and dabbed it on her nose. “It’s a date. But I’m choosing the pizza toppings this time.”


The question of how to mark ten years had been hovering over their apartment for weeks, unspoken but present, like the low hum of the refrigerator. It was a Sunday morning, and the late autumn light slanted through the kitchen window, illuminating the dust motes dancing over their cooling coffee.

Sarah was at the table, scrolling through her phone, her brow furrowed. “Flights to Tulum are actually not terrible right now,” she said, not looking up. “But then we’d have to deal with the airport, and getting a cat sitter for Gus, and… I don’t know. It feels like a lot.”

Across from her, David leaned back in his chair, nursing his mug. He’d been thinking about the same thing. “It does,” he agreed. “And it feels like we’re trying to force a big gesture because we think we should, not because we want to.” He paused, considering. “What was the best day we’ve had this year? Just one day.”

Sarah finally looked up, a small smile playing on her lips. “That Saturday in June. We drove up the coast, got that lobster roll from the shack, and then sat on the rocks for hours. You fell asleep in the sun.”

“I did not fall asleep,” he protested, but he was grinning. “I was ‘resting my eyes’ while listening to the waves. It was a good day.”

“It was a perfect day,” she corrected him.

A quiet settled between them, a comfortable one. David reached across the table and took her hand. “What if we just… did that again? Not the exact same thing, but the spirit of it. No airports, no pressure. We take Friday off, get in the car, and just drive. No real plan. We find a place for lunch, maybe a little motel for the night. Just us.”

Sarah’s smile widened, the tension visibly leaving her shoulders. She squeezed his hand back. “That sounds more like us,” she said. “Ten years isn’t about proving something with a grand trip. It’s about still wanting to sit on a rock and do nothing together.” She lifted his hand and kissed his knuckles. “Let’s do it. Let’s just go.”


The Sunday paper was spread across the kitchen table, sunlight falling in bright squares over newsprint and half-empty coffee mugs. Maya traced the rim of her cup with her finger, watching Daniel scan the real estate section out of habit.

“Five years next month,” she said.

He looked up, his reading glasses perched low on his nose. “Five years since you moved in. Feels shorter.”

“Longer, some days,” she said, but she was smiling. “What should we do?”

Daniel folded the paper and set it aside. “We could go back to that cabin in the Poconos. The one with the wood stove and the terrible mattress.”

“The mattress was part of the charm.”

“Easy for you to say. My back hurt for a week.” He reached across the table and covered her hand with his. “But I’d do it again.”

Maya considered it. The cabin had been their first trip as a cohabiting couple, back when sharing a bathroom still felt novel and they argued over whose turn it was to buy toilet paper. Now their arguments were quieter, more practical—whose turn to call the plumber, whether to replace the deck this year or next.

“We could do something smaller,” she said. “Dinner at that place downtown. The one with the candles and the overpriced wine.”

“We do that for birthdays.” Daniel shook his head. “Anniversaries should have a little more weight.”

“Since when are you sentimental?”

“Since I stopped pretending I wasn’t.” He squeezed her hand. “What if we take the day off work? Stay home. Cook something complicated. Open that bottle of wine we’ve been saving since your sister’s wedding.”

Maya tilted her head. “No reservations, no traffic?”

“Just us. And maybe we finally hang that shelf in the hallway.”

She laughed. “Now you’re romanticizing home improvement.”

“I’m serious. Five years of living together—it’s not about escaping somewhere. It’s about staying.” He paused, suddenly self-conscious. “That sounded better in my head.”

Maya turned her hand over, lacing her fingers through his. “No, I get it. We’ll cook something that takes all afternoon. Burn the shallots, probably. Drink the good wine anyway.”

“And hang the shelf,” he added.

“And hang the shelf,” she agreed.


The seventh anniversary fell on a Tuesday, and for once, neither of them had to work. Maya found Daniel on the back porch, nursing a mug of coffee and staring at the stubborn patch of clover in their lawn.

“So,” she said, sitting on the arm of his Adirondack chair. “Seven years. The itch, according to folklore.”

Daniel snorted, wrapping an arm around her legs. “My only itch is from the poison ivy I pulled last week. What are we doing?”

This was the annual negotiation. Their first anniversary had been a splurge—a bed-and-breakfast in the Hudson Valley. The third, a disastrous attempt at a fancy prix-fixe dinner where they’d both gotten food poisoning. Since then, they’d settled into a comfortable, unspoken rhythm of low-key celebrations.

“We could finally try that new tapas place,” Maya suggested. “The one with the blue awning.”

“We could,” Daniel said slowly. “Or…” He tilted his head, a familiar spark in his eye. “We could finally build the fire pit. The one we bought two years ago that’s still in the box in the garage.”

Maya laughed. “That’s your idea of romance? Manual labor?”

“It’s not just labor. It’s creating something. For us. For the next seven years.” He gestured toward the yard. “Imagine it: we get the good firewood, the stuff that crackles. We make dinner on the grill, something simple. Just sit out here under the stars, no reservations, no traffic.”

Maya considered it. The tapas place would be loud, and they’d probably have to wait even with a reservation. She looked at the overgrown corner of the yard where they’d always pictured the pit. The idea of building it together, sweating and bickering over the instructions, felt more honest than a fancy meal. It was them.

“Okay,” she said. “But you’re in charge of the grill, and I get to pick the music.”

Daniel grinned, pulling her down for a kiss. “Deal. And I’ll even let you have the first s’more.”


The afternoon sun slanted through the kitchen window, illuminating a fine layer of dust on the cookbooks. Maya leaned against the counter, scrolling through her phone. "Okay, so the five-year mark. What are we thinking?" she asked, not looking up. "There's a highly-rated omakase place downtown, but it's like, two hundred a person."

From the living room, where he was attempting to fix a wobbly leg on their secondhand coffee table, Ben grunted. "Two hundred each? For dinner? We could buy a new coffee table for that. One that doesn't threaten to collapse every time you put a mug down."

Maya finally glanced over, a smile playing on her lips. "It's an experience, Ben. Not furniture."

He set down the screwdriver and walked over, wiping his hands on his jeans. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close. "I know. But our best experiences haven't exactly been expensive." He rested his chin on her shoulder, looking at the phone. "Remember our first anniversary? We got that cheap bottle of wine, drove up to the lookout point, and the car battery died. We had to wait two hours for a tow, just talking."

Maya laughed, the sound soft and warm. "And you proposed we just live there, in the dead car, to save on rent."

"See? Romance." He squeezed her gently. "I'm not saying no to a nice dinner. I'm saying maybe we don't need to perform an anniversary. We live it every day."

She turned in his arms to face him. "So, what's your big idea, Mr. Pragmatic?"

He thought for a moment, his gaze drifting to their small, cluttered, but comfortable living room. "How about this: we finally plant that little herb garden we've been talking about on the balcony. Then, we cook a ridiculous, multi-course meal together, using the herbs. We'll make a mess, drink decent wine, and not have to worry about driving home or a two-hundred-dollar bill."

Maya considered it, her eyes scanning his face. The omakase was tempting, a symbol of how far they'd come. But this felt more like them. "A five-year anniversary spent playing in the dirt and burning garlic?"

He grinned. "Exactly. And for dessert, we can break out that fancy chocolate bar we've been saving and watch a movie on the couch. The one with the wobbly leg."

She leaned in and kissed him. "You know," she whispered, "that sounds perfect."


The quiet of the apartment was broken only by the soft ticking of the radiator and the rustle of a newspaper page. Mark sat on the sofa, his reading glasses perched on his nose, while Elena was curled in the armchair, scrolling through her phone. It was a familiar Sunday evening tableau.

“So,” Elena began, setting her phone down. “A month from today.”

Mark lowered the paper, a small smile touching his lips. “Ten years. Seems impossible.”

“I was thinking about it,” she continued, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “What do you want to do? It feels like it should be more than just dinner at the usual place.”

He folded the paper and placed it on the coffee table. “I don’t know. The usual place is pretty good.” He saw the slight frown on her face. “But you’re right. Ten years is a milestone. What were you thinking? A trip?”

Elena sighed. “I looked at flights to the coast, but with the property tax bill coming and your car making that noise, it seems reckless.”

Mark nodded, running a hand over his jaw. “We’re practical people. Maybe too practical.” He looked around the room, at the bookshelves they’d built together, the worn rug they’d haggled for at a flea market. “What if we just… leaned into that? Not a trip, but a project. Something for the house. For us.”

“Like what?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.

“We’ve been talking about that reading nook by the bay window for two years,” he said. “We could finally build the window seat. Spend the weekend doing it together. Then, get dressed up and go to that fancy steakhouse we always say is too expensive. A celebration of what we’ve built, and the people we’ve built it with.”

A slow smile spread across Elena’s face. It wasn’t a sandy beach, but it was them. It was sawdust and shared effort, followed by a rare, decadent meal.

“I love it,” she said. “But you’re in charge of measuring. I don’t want a repeat of the bookshelf incident of 2019.”

Mark laughed, a deep, warm sound. “Deal. And you’re in charge of the playlist. No sad indie folk while we’re working.”

“Done,” she agreed, already feeling the familiar warmth of their shared life settle around them.


The September light was thinning over the kitchen table, where Maya had spread a dozen paint swatches in a fan. She was trying to decide on a color for the hallway, a project she’d been circling for weeks. Daniel came in from the garage, smelling faintly of sawdust, and set two cold bottles of beer on the table, nudging a swatch aside.

“So,” he said, sitting down. “Ten years next Saturday.”

Maya looked up. “I know. I was thinking about that.” Their anniversary wasn’t a wedding date, but the day he’d helped her carry a secondhand couch up three flights of stairs to her old apartment and never really left. It was a real marker, weightier than either of them had expected it to become.

“Me too,” he said. “I was going to suggest the coast. That place in Mendocino with the creaky floors. Just us, no cell service.”

Maya smiled, but it was brief. “That sounds beautiful. I was thinking maybe… a party? In the backyard. String lights, a pig roast, the whole messy thing. Everyone we love in one place.”

Daniel took a long pull of his beer. “A party is a lot of work. We’d spend the whole day setting up and cleaning. We wouldn’t even get to talk to each other.”

“We talk every day,” she said, not unkindly. “We don’t celebrate every day. Ten years feels bigger than a quiet weekend. It feels like a community thing.”

He considered this, turning the bottle in his hands. “I get that. But the quiet weekend is for us. The party is for them.”

The silence stretched, not tense but thoughtful. Maya tapped a deep green swatch. “What if we did both? Not on the same day. A small dinner with your brother and the Wilsons on Friday. Then we leave for the coast Saturday morning. We get the noise and the quiet.”

Daniel’s face relaxed into a grin. “A two-part anniversary. I like that. We can sleep in Sunday, no alarms.”

“And I’ll finally pick this hallway color,” she said, holding up the green. “I’m going with this one.”

He raised his bottle. “To ten years. And to a hallway that finally gets painted.” She clinked her bottle against his, and the decision felt settled, a small, shared victory in the long, ordinary project of their life.


The October light was fading fast beyond the kitchen window as Lena measured out coffee for the next morning. From the living room, she could hear the low murmur of a documentary about deep-sea thermal vents—David’s current obsession. Tomorrow was their fifth anniversary.

She found him on the couch, laptop open, a half-empty bag of pretzels balanced on the armrest. He glanced up, pausing the video. “Hey. I was thinking we could try that new tapas place on Fifth. The one with the sherry list.”

Lena sat on the edge of the coffee table, facing him. “Five years feels… bigger than tapas.” She picked at a loose thread on her sweater. “Not in a bad way. Tapas is great. But I was thinking about what we actually do.”

David closed the laptop. “Okay. What do we actually do?”

“We save,” she said. “We talk about a down payment. We replaced the water heater last spring. Our big splurge was the couch we’re sitting on.” She gestured around the room, the warm, worn-in space they’d built together. “I don’t want to spend a hundred and fifty dollars on dinner. I want to do something that feels like us.”

He nodded slowly, reaching for her hand. “So, what does that look like? A hike? That cabin in the Shenandoahs we keep saying we’ll book?”

“Maybe,” she said. “But it’s supposed to rain all weekend. What if we just… stay here? We turn off our phones. We make that ridiculous seafood risotto from scratch. We open that bottle of wine we bought in Oregon two years ago and never touched because it was ‘too special.’” She squeezed his fingers. “We celebrate the life we’re actually living, not the one we think we should have for a night.”

David was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing a circle on her knuckles. A slow smile spread across his face. “That sounds perfect. And honestly? A lot less pressure than finding parking downtown.”

Lena leaned forward and kissed him. “Good. You’re on dish duty, though.”

“For a five-year anniversary, I’ll even dry,” he said, pulling her onto the couch beside him as the documentary resumed its quiet hum.


The first Saturday in October had always been theirs. Ten years ago, they had met at a crowded fall festival, bonding over a shared dislike of pumpkin spice and a mutual love for the smell of woodsmoke. Now, the same date loomed, and the question of how to mark it hung in the air of their sun-drenched kitchen.

Maya leaned against the counter, scrolling through her phone. “Okay, I found a little inn up in the Hudson Valley. It has a fireplace in the room and a hiking trail right out the back. We could leave Friday after work.”

Daniel, hunched over his coffee at the small breakfast table, didn’t look up from the sports section. “That’s a four-hour drive, Maya. And I have that big presentation on Monday. I’d be half-focused the whole time, thinking about work.”

She set her phone down, her expression tightening. “So, what? We just order takeout and watch a movie like it’s any other Saturday?”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying.” He finally met her gaze, his own softening. “I’m just saying a big trip feels… forced. For us.”

A silence settled between them, thick and familiar. Ten years wasn’t a wedding anniversary. There was no script, no societal expectation. It was just theirs, and they had to define it themselves.

Daniel sighed, folding the paper. “Remember the first place we lived? That tiny apartment on Maple Street.”

A small smile touched Maya’s lips. “The one with the radiator that clanked like a ghost?”

“And the terrible Chinese place on the corner that we were strangely addicted to,” he added. “What if we just… recreated that? We could drive over, walk around the old neighborhood. Maybe get an order of those greasy dumplings to go. Then come back here, build a fire in the backyard, and just talk. No screens, no work.”

Maya considered it. The grand gesture of a weekend away was tempting, but it felt like a performance. This felt like a remembering. She walked over to the table and sat down across from him.

“Okay,” she said, her voice soft. “But we’re getting two orders of dumplings. I’m not sharing.”


The question arose on a Sunday morning, not with fanfare, but with the quiet clink of a coffee mug on the worn oak table. Marcus was scrolling through his phone, his brow furrowed. “Hey,” he said, glancing up at Lena, who was buttering a piece of toast. “You realize our fifth anniversary is next month?”

Lena paused, knife in mid-air. “Five years. Wow. Has it been that long?” A small smile touched her lips. “Feels like both forever and no time at all.”

“Right?” he agreed. “So, what do you want to do? I was thinking maybe we could book that cabin up in the Catskills. Just us, some hiking, a fireplace.”

Lena finished buttering her toast and sat down opposite him. “That sounds lovely,” she said, and she meant it. “But we did a cabin trip for our third anniversary. I was thinking maybe we could do something a little different. Something that marks the milestone more… permanently.”

Marcus leaned back in his chair, his expression open. “Okay, I’m listening.”

“What about that photography exhibit at the MoMA?” she suggested. “The one on American landscapes. We could get dressed up, have a fancy dinner after. Make a whole city day of it.”

He considered this. “We could. But that feels like something we could do any weekend. Five years feels like it should be more than just a nice date.” He paused, taking a sip of his coffee. “What if we planted a tree?”

Lena tilted her head, intrigued.

“In the backyard,” he continued, his voice gaining enthusiasm. “We’ve been talking about doing something with that bare patch by the fence for years. We could get a maple, or a dogwood. Something that will grow with us. We could even bury a little time capsule at the roots with notes to each other.”

Lena’s smile grew wide. She reached across the table and placed her hand on his. The cabin was romantic, the city was exciting, but this was them. It was building something in the home they already shared, a living testament to their time together.

“A dogwood,” she said, her voice soft. “And I want to write you a letter on the good stationery. Deal?”

He turned his hand over to squeeze hers. “Deal.”


The September light was fading into a soft amber glow across the kitchen table, where Maya was hunched over her laptop, a spreadsheet of restaurant names glowing on the screen. Leo came in from the garage, wiping his hands on an old rag, the faint scent of sawdust trailing him.

“You’re planning a corporate takeover?” he asked, leaning over her shoulder.

“Worse,” she said, tilting the screen so he could see. “Our ten-year anniversary. I’m trying to decide if we should finally go to that tasting menu place downtown. The one with the seven courses and the wine pairings.”

Leo pulled out a chair and sat, the old wood creaking under his weight. “Ten years,” he said, as if testing the weight of it. “That’s a mortgage, two dead cars, and a bathroom renovation that nearly ended us.”

“Don’t forget the great paint-color debate of 2019,” Maya added, a smile tugging at her lips. “I still say ‘Silver Mist’ was the right call.”

“And I still say it looks blue.” He reached for her hand, his thumb tracing a small scar on her knuckle. “So, a fancy dinner. Is that what you really want?”

She looked at him, at the fine lines now etched around his eyes, the ones that deepened when he laughed. “I don’t know. It feels like we should *do* something. Something significant.”

“We’ve been doing significant for ten years,” he said. “We’ve signed leases and painted walls and argued about whose turn it is to clean the gutters. That’s a lot.”

Maya closed her laptop. “So what do you suggest, Mr. Sentimental?”

Leo thought for a moment, his gaze drifting to the backyard. “How about this? We get a sitter for the dog, pack a cooler with that cheap prosecco you secretly love, and drive out to the lake. The one where we went on our third date. We can sit on the tailgate, watch the stars, and just… be.”

Maya pictured it: the quiet lapping of water, the familiar comfort of his arm around her shoulder, the absence of a need to perform a perfect celebration. It wasn’t a seven-course meal, but it was theirs. It was the life they’d built.

“Okay,” she said softly, squeezing his hand. “But we’re getting the good takeout fried chicken on the way.”


The Sunday paper was spread across the kitchen table, but neither Lena nor Tom was reading it. The date, circled in red on the wall calendar, hung between them like a question mark. Ten years. A decade of shared mortgages, Sunday papers, and the quiet hum of a life built together.

“So,” Tom said, pushing his coffee mug in a slow circle. “The big one.”

Lena leaned back, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “It feels different, doesn’t it? Not just another anniversary.”

He nodded. They’d done the fancy dinners, the weekend getaways. Those memories were good, but they felt like snapshots. This felt like it needed a foundation, not a flash.

“I was thinking,” he started, then stopped, looking almost sheepish. “Maybe we don’t go anywhere.”

Lena raised an eyebrow. “We just stay home? For our tenth?”

“Not just stay home,” he clarified. “We *invest*. In the house. In us.” He gestured toward the window, where the late afternoon sun highlighted the peeling paint on the back porch. “We’ve been talking about fixing that porch for two years. What if we do it together? Next weekend. Rent the sander, pick out the paint. Make a day of it.”

Lena considered it. It wasn’t glamorous. But she pictured them, covered in dust and paint, arguing over the right shade of gray, sharing a beer on the finished steps. It was a vision of the next ten years, not just a toast to the last ten.

“I like that,” she said, a smile finally breaking through. “But on one condition.”

“Name it.”

“We don’t just fix the porch. We plant that Japanese maple we’ve always wanted in the corner of the yard. Something that will grow with us.”

Tom’s face softened. He reached across the table, his hand covering hers. “Deal. A project and a promise.” The circled date on the calendar no longer felt like a question. It felt like a blueprint.


The kitchen smelled of coffee and the faint, clean scent of lemon dish soap. Outside the window above the sink, a light April rain beaded on the glass. Inside, Maya leaned against the counter, cradling her mug, while David sat at their small wooden table, scrolling through his phone.

“So,” he said, not looking up. “Ten years.”

“Ten years,” she echoed. The number felt substantial, a weight with real texture. It was longer than some marriages, longer than either of their stints at any single job.

David set his phone down. “My mom keeps asking if we’re going to do something ‘special.’ She suggested a cruise.”

Maya snorted softly. “A cruise. Us. Stuck on a boat with a thousand strangers and a buffet. That sounds like a punishment, not a celebration.”

“Agreed.” He ran a hand through his hair. “What about a weekend in the city? Fancy dinner, a show?”

She considered it, picturing the crowded sidewalks, the effort of reservations and dressing up. It was a nice image, but it felt like a performance. “It’s tempting,” she admitted. “But we can do that anytime. This feels… different.”

He nodded, understanding immediately. That was one of the things that had lasted ten years—the ability to have a conversation without needing to spell everything out. He got up and refilled his own mug from the pot, leaning against the counter opposite her. Their feet almost touched.

“What if,” he started, his voice thoughtful, “we just… stayed here? Turned our phones off. I could make that ridiculously complicated lasagna you like. The one that takes all day.”

A slow smile spread across Maya’s face. “And we could finally open that bottle of wine we bought in Napa. The one we’ve been saving for a ‘real’ occasion.”

“Exactly.” He grinned. “We could finally finish that puzzle that’s been on the coffee table for a month. Or just watch bad movies.”

She took a sip of her coffee, the warmth spreading through her. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t a story for Instagram. But it was them. It was the life they’d built, brick by quiet brick, in this house. “That,” she said, her voice firm, “sounds perfect.”


The kitchen smelled of garlic and rosemary, a Tuesday night like any other. Maya was at the stove, stirring a pan of cherry tomatoes, while Ben leaned against the counter, scrolling through his phone. The quiet was comfortable, filled with the sounds of the simmering sauce and the low hum of the refrigerator.

“Hey,” Ben said, not looking up. “Did you know our ten-year anniversary is in three weeks?”

Maya paused, the wooden spoon suspended in mid-air. “It is,” she said, a small smile touching her lips. “Since we moved in together, at least. Time flies.”

“It does,” he agreed, finally pocketing his phone. “So, what do you want to do? Big trip? Fancy dinner downtown?”

Maya turned back to the stove, giving the pan a shake. “I don’t know. A trip sounds nice, but also… a lot of planning. And money. We just paid for the new water heater.”

Ben nodded, his expression thoughtful. “True. And a fancy dinner feels a little… performative. Like we’re trying to impress a version of ourselves from a decade ago.”

“Exactly,” she said, relieved. “I was thinking maybe we could just… I don’t know, take the day off work. Go for a long hike, the one by the river we used to do. Come home, order from that Thai place we love, and open that bottle of wine we’ve been saving.”

He considered this, his arms crossing over his chest. “That sounds perfect, actually. But can we add one thing?”

She turned to face him, curious.

“We can finally hang the art in the hallway,” he said. “The prints we bought six months ago that are still leaning against the wall in the spare room. It would be a nice way to mark the day. Make the house feel a little more finished.”

Maya’s smile widened. “Deal. Day off, hike, Thai food, wine, and finally conquering the hallway. It’s the most ‘us’ anniversary plan ever.”

Ben grinned, pushing off the counter to set the table. It wasn’t a grand gesture, but in the quiet rhythm of their shared life, it was exactly right.


The September air had a crispness to it as Maya watered the geraniums on the front porch, the watering can tilting with a familiar, comforting weight. Inside, she could see Ben through the living room window, his laptop open, a slight furrow of concentration on his brow. Their five-year anniversary was on Saturday.

She found him still at the table, now scrolling through his phone. “Any brilliant ideas?” she asked, setting a mug of tea beside him.

He sighed, leaning back. “I was looking at that new tapas place downtown. But it feels… I don’t know, not enough. Five years feels significant.”

“It does,” she agreed, sitting opposite him. “But it doesn’t have to be a production. Remember year two? We tried that fancy prix fixe and ended up getting burgers afterward because we were still hungry.”

Ben laughed, a low, warm sound. “Right. And the car got towed. Okay, so maybe not a grand gesture.” He paused, his eyes drifting to the backyard. “What about fixing up the fire pit? We’ve been talking about it all summer. We could get some good wood, those nice sausages from the Italian market, and just… be here. No reservations, no traffic.”

Maya considered it. The idea of creating something together for the evening, rather than just consuming an experience, had a quiet appeal. “I like that,” she said. “But I want to add one thing. No phones. Not for the whole evening. Just us and the fire.”

A smile spread across his face. “Deal. I’ll get the wood and food. You’re in charge of the ambiance. Blankets, the good glasses, maybe that playlist from our first road trip.”

“It’s a plan,” she said, feeling a sense of rightness settle over her. It wasn’t a trip to Paris or a new piece of jewelry. It was an investment in the small, shared world they had built, a promise to tend to it. That felt exactly right for five years.


The tenth anniversary fell on a Tuesday in late October, and the question of how to mark it had become a quiet point of friction in their shared home. For Daniel, the day felt monumental, a landmark that deserved more than a casual dinner. He’d been dropping hints about a weekend trip to the coast, a bed-and-breakfast with a fireplace, the kind of grand gesture he rarely made.

Maya, however, was in the thick of a demanding project at the architectural firm. The thought of packing a bag and driving four hours felt less like a celebration and more like an obligation. She wanted quiet, a restoration of energy, not an expenditure of it.

The discussion unfolded on a Sunday evening, over the remains of a roast chicken. Daniel cleared the plates, his movements a little too deliberate. “So,” he began, his voice carefully neutral, “I was looking at that place in Mendocino again. They still have a room for next weekend.”

Maya leaned back in her chair, rubbing her tired eyes. “Dan, I saw the pictures. It’s beautiful. But honestly? The idea of the drive… I just want to sleep in our own bed.” She saw a flicker of disappointment cross his face and reached for his hand. “It’s not that I don’t want to celebrate. I do. I just want to celebrate us, not a vacation.”

He sat down, his shoulders relaxing a fraction. “Okay. What does that look like to you?”

She thought for a moment, her thumb tracing a pattern on his knuckles. “What if we took the day off? Both of us. We could sleep in, make that ridiculous lemon ricotta pancake recipe we’ve never tried. Then, maybe a long walk in the arboretum, the way we used to. No phones.”

Daniel considered this. His vision had been about escaping their routine; hers was about reclaiming it. He realized then that he’d been trying to prove something with the trip, to demonstrate the weight of ten years. But the weight was already there, in the easy comfort of their kitchen, in the way she knew exactly what he was offering and could ask for what she needed instead. A slow smile spread across his face.

“And for dinner?” he asked.

“We get takeout from that little Italian place,” she said, her voice gaining energy. “The one from our first anniversary. We eat it on the couch, in our pajamas, and watch a movie we’ve both seen a hundred times.”

He squeezed her hand. “That sounds perfect.” The grand gesture faded, replaced by something that felt more solid, more genuinely theirs. They spent the next hour planning the simple menu for their day off, the argument dissolving into shared anticipation.


The afternoon sun slanted through the kitchen window, illuminating a faint layer of dust on the cookbooks. Maya leaned against the counter, scrolling through her phone. “Okay, I’ve got a list. There’s a wine and paint night downtown, a new omakase place that’s impossible to get into, or we could just do a long weekend in the Poconos.”

Across the room, Ben was meticulously repotting a monstera, his hands covered in dark soil. He didn’t look up. “The Poconos sounds like a lot of driving for two days.”

“It’s our five-year anniversary, Ben. A little driving is allowed.” She put her phone down. “What are you thinking? You’ve been quiet about it all week.”

He brushed his hands on his jeans and finally met her gaze. “Honestly? I was thinking about that first apartment. The one with the radiator that clanked all night and the kitchen the size of a closet.”

Maya smiled, a soft, remembering smile. “Where we ate ramen on the floor because we couldn't afford a table.”

“Exactly.” He walked over to the sink to wash his hands. “I was thinking we could just… recreate that. Not the bad parts. The good part. We cook that same spicy ramen, drag the duvet into the living room, and watch that terrible sci-fi movie we both pretended to like. No reservations, no traffic.”

Maya was quiet for a moment, looking around their comfortable, adult home. They had a real dining table now, a dishwasher, a bedroom that wasn't also the living room. The idea was tempting in its simplicity. “No gifts?” she asked, a playful challenge in her voice.

“The gift is not having to put on real pants,” he countered, drying his hands on a towel. “And I’ll get the good chili oil. The one from the Asian market across town.”

She considered it, picturing the two of them on the floor, laughing at the movie’s bad special effects. It felt more real than a forced weekend getaway. A slow smile spread across her face. “Okay. But I’m picking the movie. And you’re doing the dishes.”

Ben grinned. “Deal.” He crossed the kitchen and kissed her forehead. It was, they both knew, the perfect plan.


The kitchen faucet dripped a steady, patient rhythm into the sink, a sound as familiar to Lena as her own heartbeat. She leaned against the counter, a dish towel slung over her shoulder, and watched Mark scroll through his phone at the small table. The late afternoon sun caught the fine lines at the corners of his eyes.

“So,” she began, her voice soft in the quiet house. “Ten years. What do you want to do?”

Mark looked up, his thumb pausing mid-scroll. A small smile touched his lips. “Ten years,” he echoed, as if testing the weight of the words. “I was just looking at that new tapas place downtown. We could get dressed up, have a fancy night out.”

Lena considered it, picturing the crowded room, the effort of conversation over loud music. It was lovely, but it didn’t feel quite right. “We could,” she said, moving to sit across from him. “But we did that for your birthday. And for my promotion. It’s… an event.”

He set his phone down, giving her his full attention. “What are you thinking?”

She traced a knot in the worn oak table, a spot where a glass had sweated and left a faint, permanent ring. “Remember the first apartment? The one on Elm Street with the radiators that clanked all night?”

Mark laughed, a low, warm sound. “And the fire escape where we’d sit and eat cheap takeout because the kitchen was too hot in the summer.”

“That’s what I want,” Lena said, her eyes meeting his. “Not the fancy restaurant. I want to recreate that. Just us, a bottle of that seven-dollar wine we used to drink, and a pile of Thai food. We can sit on the back deck and just… talk. No phones.”

He looked at her for a long moment, his expression softening. “That sounds perfect,” he said. “But I’m not drinking wine that costs less than a gallon of gas. I’ll get the good stuff. And I’m making my famous guacamole.”

“Deal,” she said, a genuine smile finally breaking through. “But we’re eating it out of the old chipped bowls. The blue ones. It’s tradition.”

He reached across the table and took her hand, his thumb stroking her knuckles. “It’s a date,” he said. “The best kind.”


The September light was fading into a soft amber through the kitchen window as Lena poured two glasses of wine. Mark was at the table, scrolling through his phone with a slight frown, the glow of the screen illuminating the faint lines around his eyes.

“Okay, I’ve been looking,” he said, setting the phone down. “There’s a fancy French place downtown with a tasting menu, or we could drive up the coast to that inn we talked about last spring.”

Lena slid a glass toward him and sat down. “Ten years,” she said, the number feeling heavy and buoyant all at once. “It feels like it should be… I don’t know, significant.”

“It is significant,” Mark agreed, taking a sip. “That’s why I’m suggesting the tasting menu. It’s an occasion.”

“But is it *us*?” Lena asked, her fingers tracing the grain of the wooden table. “I mean, a fancy dinner is nice, but we do that for birthdays. Ten years since we moved in together… that feels more about the life we’ve built here, not just a night out.”

Mark leaned back, considering this. “So, what, you want to stay in? Order pizza and watch a movie? We do that every Friday.”

“Not exactly,” she said, a small smile playing on her lips. “Remember the first night in this house? The power wasn’t even on yet. We sat on the floor with a flashlight and a bucket of fried chicken, and you read the terrible online reviews of the place out loud to make me laugh because I was so stressed about the mortgage.”

He laughed, the memory softening his expression. “God, the one about the ghost in the crawlspace. I forgot about that.”

“I didn’t,” she said. “I think that’s what I want to do. Not the ghost part, but the spirit of it. Let’s not go anywhere. Let’s cook a ridiculously elaborate meal together, something we’ve never made before, light every candle in the house, and just… be here. Celebrate the fact that we’re still here, in this home we made.”

Mark looked around the kitchen, at the scuffed floorboards and the photos on the fridge, and then back at Lena. He nodded slowly. “You’re right. That’s better. That’s us.”


The September air had that first crisp bite as Maya stood at the kitchen sink, staring out at the maple tree just beginning to turn. Ten years. The number felt monumental and ordinary all at once. She heard Daniel’s footsteps on the stairs, the familiar squeak of the third step.

“Hey,” he said, coming up behind her and resting his chin on her shoulder. “You’re quiet.”

“Just thinking,” she replied, leaning back into him. “Ten years, Dan. What do you want to do?”

He was quiet for a moment, his arms wrapping around her waist. “I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about it too. Ten years feels… big.”

Maya turned in his arms to face him. “It does. But every time I think about a big trip or a fancy dinner, it feels like something we’re supposed to do, not something we want to do.”

Daniel nodded, a strand of his dark hair falling onto his forehead. “Exactly. I don’t want to perform our anniversary. I just want to be with you.”

A comfortable silence settled between them, filled with the hum of the refrigerator. Maya’s gaze drifted past him to the living room, to the worn spot on the couch where they spent every Friday night with takeout and a movie. The bookshelves they’d built together, the scuffed floor from their first, clumsy attempt at dancing in the house.

“What about the cabin?” she asked softly.

Daniel’s eyes lit up. “The one in the Shenandoahs? Where we went that first fall?”

“Yeah,” she said, a smile spreading across her face. “No big production. Just us, the wood stove, and that trail to the overlook. We can unplug, cook a simple dinner, and just… be.”

He pulled her into a proper hug, his hand cradling the back of her head. “That sounds perfect. It’s us. It’s the whole point.”

“I’ll book it tonight,” she said, her voice muffled against his chest. “Happy early anniversary.”

“Happy early anniversary,” he whispered into her hair. The maple tree rustled outside the window, a few golden leaves drifting down as if in agreement.


The September light was fading into a soft amber glow across the kitchen table, illuminating the takeout containers between Lena and Marcus. It was their tenth anniversary, not of marriage, but of the rainy Tuesday they’d met in a bookstore checkout line. Ten years, a mortgage, and one very opinionated rescue beagle later, they still hadn't signed a piece of paper.

Lena leaned back, twirling a fork in her lo mein. “So, what’s the verdict? A long weekend in the mountains? I found a cabin with a hot tub and absolutely no cell service.”

Marcus, who had been scrolling through photos on his phone, turned the screen toward her. It was a picture of their backyard, but transformed. A string of café lights hung from the old maple, a fire pit glowed in the center, and a small table was set for two.

“I was thinking,” he said, his voice a little hesitant, “we could do this. Right here.”

Lena’s eyebrows rose. “Our backyard?”

“Hear me out,” he said, setting the phone down. “We’ve done the trips. For our fifth, we went to that bed and breakfast in Vermont. For our seventh, the coast of Maine. They were great. But this… this is where we actually live the anniversary. This is where we planted the tomatoes, where we argued about the paint color for the living room, where we sit every night with a glass of wine.”

He gestured around the kitchen, at the slightly crooked cabinet he’d hung, at the chipped mug Lena always used. “I want to celebrate the thing itself, not run away from it. We can get the good steaks from the butcher, open that bottle of wine we’ve been saving, and just… be here. In the life we’ve built.”

Lena looked from the phone to the real backyard through the window, picturing it. She had been so focused on an escape, she hadn’t considered the alternative. A slow smile spread across her face.

“You’re right,” she admitted. “Let’s do it here. But only if I get to be in charge of the playlist, and you’re in charge of keeping the beagle from stealing the steaks.”

Marcus grinned. “Deal.”


The clock on the mantel in their Denver living room ticked past seven, the soft chime a quiet punctuation to the comfortable silence. Maya was curled on the couch, a book resting on her knee, while Leo sat on the floor, leaning back against the armchair with his laptop. He closed it with a soft click.

“So,” he said, his voice breaking the quiet. “Next month. Ten years.”

Maya looked up, her finger marking her page. “Ten years,” she echoed, a small smile playing on her lips. It felt both monumental and as natural as breathing. A whole decade of shared Sunday mornings and leaky faucets, of career changes and family dramas, all built without a piece of paper.

“What do you want to do?” Leo asked, turning to face her. “Big trip? Fancy dinner?”

She considered it, picturing the two of them in a hushed, expensive restaurant, trying to make conversation over a tiny, artfully arranged plate. It felt like a performance. Their life wasn’t a performance. It was the worn-in comfort of this very room.

“I was thinking,” she began, setting her book aside. “Remember that first apartment? The one with the radiator that clanked all night and the fire escape we used as a balcony?”

Leo grinned. “How could I forget? We drank cheap wine from jelly jars and thought we were living in a movie.”

“I was thinking we could rent a cabin,” she said. “Somewhere quiet, near a lake. No itinerary, no reservations. Just us, some good food, and maybe that terrible card game you love.”

He was quiet for a moment, and she saw the thought turning over in his mind. He wasn’t calculating cost or logistics; he was testing the feeling of it. The idea of a quiet, private celebration, focused not on the date itself but on the simple fact of their shared presence, felt right. It felt like them.

A slow smile spread across his face. “We could bring the good coffee,” he said. “And that ridiculous, thick blanket from the bedroom.”

Maya nodded, her own smile widening. “And build a fire every night.”

“Deal,” he said, the single word feeling more significant than any grand pronouncement. It was a plan, not for a celebration, but for the next quiet chapter of their unwritten life.


The kitchen smelled of coffee and the last of the summer air drifting through the screen door. Lena was at the table, her laptop open to a spreadsheet of expenses, but her eyes were on the calendar. A small, red circle sat on the date two weeks out.

“So,” she said, not looking up as Marcus came in, drying his hands on a dish towel. “Five years.”

“Five years,” he echoed, leaning against the counter. He’d been thinking about it too. Five years of shared rent, shared groceries, and a shared life that felt as solid as the oak floorboards beneath their feet. “Feels longer. In a good way.”

“I know what you mean.” She finally closed the laptop. “My mom keeps asking if we’re going to ‘make it official.’ I told her we’re already about as official as a joint mortgage gets.”

Marcus smiled, but it was a thoughtful one. “She’s not wrong to wonder, though. We’ve been so focused on the house, saving for the roof, your promotion… we haven’t really stopped to just… mark the day.”

Lena nodded, tracing the rim of her mug. “I was thinking the same thing. We could do the usual—nice dinner downtown, maybe that new Italian place. But it feels like we should do something that’s more *us*.”

He walked over and sat down across from her. “What does that look like to you?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “A hike? We haven’t been to the mountains all summer.”

“That’s true.” He reached across the table, his fingers brushing hers. “But the forecast is calling for rain all week. What about staying in? We could cook that complicated paella recipe we’ve been too scared to try. Open that bottle of wine we bought in Napa.”

Lena considered it. The image of the two of them in their own kitchen, music playing, fumbling through a recipe, felt right. It was the quiet, unglamorous work of their life together. “I’d like that,” she said. “A lot. But maybe we can do both? A short, muddy hike in the morning, then come home and cook. Best of both.”

Marcus squeezed her hand. “Deal. Miserable hike, triumphant dinner. It’s the perfect anniversary.”


The September air had a crispness to it that made the open kitchen window a small luxury. Lena stood at the counter, drizzling olive oil into a bowl of torn bread for panzanella. Marcus leaned against the doorframe, a dish towel slung over his shoulder, watching her.

“So,” he said, “ten years.”

“Ten years,” she echoed, not looking up from the tomatoes. “A decade. A solid chunk of life.”

“It is,” he agreed. “Which is why I think we should do something. Not just dinner at the same Italian place.” He paused. “Though I do love that place.”

Lena smiled. “Me too. But you’re right.” She wiped her hands on her jeans. “My parents would have had a party. A big, rented-hall kind of thing with a DJ and a cake. For their twentieth.”

“Mine would have just had a barbecue,” Marcus said. “A cooler full of beer and a ‘Congrats’ banner from the grocery store.” He crossed the small kitchen and took the knife from her hand, setting it down. He turned her to face him, his hands resting lightly on her hips. “But we’re not them.”

“No,” she said, her gaze meeting his. “We bought a house with a leaky roof instead of a wedding. I’d say that’s a different path.” She thought of the stack of unopened mail on the hall table, the mortgage statement, the receipt for the new water heater. A party felt like a performance for other people. This anniversary felt private, a quiet testament to their own endurance.

“What about the cabin?” he asked. The word hung in the air. It was their place—a drafty rental in the Shenandoahs where they’d gone for their first anniversary, and then again after a particularly brutal year when his father was sick. It was the site of long hikes, bad card games, and the best sleep they ever got.

Lena’s face softened. “The cabin,” she repeated. A slow smile spread. “No cell service. That fireplace.”

“And the porch where you read an entire book in one afternoon,” he added.

She leaned into him, her head finding its familiar spot against his chest. “Let’s do it. Let’s go back to the cabin. Just us, a bottle of good whiskey, and a week of nothing.” It wasn’t a party. It was better. It was a reaffirmation of the life they’d built, one quiet day at a time.


The Sunday paper lay scattered across the kitchen table, a casualty of the crossword puzzle they’d abandoned halfway through. Maya was at the counter, refilling her coffee mug, when she brought it up.

“So,” she said, her voice carefully neutral. “June 14th. That’s a Saturday this year.”

David looked up from his phone. “Is it? I hadn’t checked.” He knew exactly what June 14th was. It was the day, six years ago, they’d met at a friend’s barbecue, a day so hot the beer bottles sweated through their labels. It was the day they’d chosen as their anchor, their official start.

“I was thinking,” Maya continued, turning to lean against the counter, “we could do the whole thing. Fancy dinner. New outfit. The place with the little candles on the table.” She gestured vaguely with her mug. “Make a big deal of it.”

David shifted in his chair. The thought of a hushed, expensive restaurant, of making stilted conversation over a tiny, artful plate of food, felt like a performance. “We could,” he said slowly. “Or…” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “Remember the first time we tried to cook that paella? The one that ended up looking like orange cement?”

A smile touched Maya’s lips. “I remember the fire alarm going off at eleven o’clock at night.”

“Right? And we ended up eating cereal on the fire escape.” He stood up, walking over to her. “What if we did that? But, you know, better. We get the good ingredients from that market you like. We spend the whole afternoon in the kitchen, listening to that old playlist. We make a mess. And if it fails, we order a pizza and eat it on the floor. Like we used to.”

Maya considered this, her head tilting. The grand gesture was tempting, a way to prove to the world—and maybe to each other—that they were still trying. But the quiet, messy reality of David’s plan felt more honest. It was about the life they’d actually built, not the one in a jewelry commercial.

“Okay,” she said, a genuine smile finally breaking through. “But you’re in charge of the rice. I refuse to be responsible for another culinary disaster.”

He grinned, pulling her into a hug. “Deal. But I get to pick the pizza toppings if it all goes wrong.”


The September light was fading into a soft amber glow across the kitchen, illuminating the dust motes dancing above the sink. Maya leaned against the counter, a dish towel slung over her shoulder, and read the text from her sister again: *Big 5 for you two! What are the plans?*

“My sister’s asking about Saturday,” she said, her voice carrying into the living room.

Ben looked up from the half-disassembled bicycle pump in his lap. He had grease on his thumb. “Saturday?”

Maya gave him a look, one eyebrow arched. “The 23rd. Five years since you nervously fumbled your keys outside my old apartment and asked if I wanted to get a drink.”

A slow grin spread across his face. “Ah. That Saturday. The one where I wore a shirt I thought was ‘vintage’ but was actually just old.”

“It had a hole in the collar,” she confirmed, smiling. “So, what do you want to do? We could try that new tapas place downtown. Make a reservation, get dressed up.”

Ben wiped his hands on a rag, his expression thoughtful. “We could. Or…” He gestured vaguely toward the back door with the pump. “Remember the first summer here? We bought those cheap camping chairs and sat in the yard with a bottle of wine, just talking until the mosquitos won.”

Maya’s smile softened. “We talked about getting a dog. And how we’d paint the kitchen this exact color.” She tapped the pale green wall behind her.

“Exactly. We’ve *done* the fancy dinner thing for birthdays and promotions. For this…” He shrugged, a little self-consciously. “I was thinking we could just… do that again. But with better wine and a citronella candle. Just us. No reservations, no crowds.”

She considered it, looking around the kitchen they’d painted together, at the scuffed floor from a hundred shared meals. The tapas place would be loud and bustling, a performance of a celebration. The backyard felt like the truth of it.

“Okay,” she said. “But we’re getting the good cheese. Not the pre-sliced stuff.”

He laughed, the sound warm in the quiet house. “Deal. And I’ll finally fix this pump so we can inflate the chairs that have been flat since July.”

Maya walked over and nudged his leg with her foot. “Happy almost-anniversary, Ben.”

He caught her hand, his thumb tracing a circle on her palm. “Happy almost-anniversary, Maya.”


The late-afternoon sun slanted through the kitchen window, illuminating the dust motes dancing over the pile of unopened mail. Maya leaned against the counter, scrolling through her phone. “Okay, so the standard ‘paper’ gift for year one is a clock,” she announced. “Which feels like a passive-aggressive hint to be on time.”

From the living room, Ben looked up from the book he was reading. “Or a comment on our mortality. Very romantic.” He closed the book, keeping a finger inside to mark his page. “I still think we should just go back to that cabin in the Poconos. We could rent the same one, bring the same wine, and actually manage to keep the fire going this time.”

Maya set her phone down. “That’s a third-anniversary trip, not a first. The first one should be about solidifying the foundation. We should do something that feels like us, here. Not a rerun.”

Ben walked over, leaning against the opposite side of the counter. “What feels like us is you making that pasta with the lemon and capers, and me picking a movie you’ll fall asleep during after twenty minutes.” He smiled, a small, familiar curve of his lips. “I’m not saying that’s a bad thing.”

She considered this. He wasn’t wrong. The quiet, unremarkable nights were the ones that had built this life—the shared home, the easy silence, the comfort of his presence in the next room. A grand gesture felt performative.

“Okay,” she said, the idea forming as she spoke. “What if we don’t leave? What if we finally tackle the backyard? We’ve been talking about planting that maple tree since we moved in. We could do it together, on our anniversary. Put down roots. Literally.”

Ben’s smile widened. “That’s… actually perfect. And then we can have the lemon pasta to celebrate our survival. We’ll be too tired to go anywhere else.”

“And I’ll try to stay awake for the movie,” she added. “I’ll make no promises.”

He crossed the small space between them and pulled her into a hug. “No clocks, no pressure,” he murmured into her hair. “Just us, and a tree.” It was a plan, not for a single day, but for all the ones after it.


The September light was fading outside their kitchen window when Mara set two takeout menus on the counter. Daniel was already there, peeling the foil off a bottle of wine he’d found in the back of the cabinet.

“Okay,” she said, “for our five-year anniversary, I’m giving you a choice. We can drive to that Italian place in the village, the one with the good bread. Or we can stay in, order Thai, and finally watch that documentary about the octopus.”

Daniel poured wine into two mismatched glasses and slid one toward her. “That’s the whole list?”

“I’m open to additions.”

He leaned against the counter, considering. “What if we did the thing we actually did on our first anniversary? The accidental one.”

Mara frowned. “We didn’t do anything on our first anniversary. You were working a double at the hospital.”

“Exactly. I came home at eleven, you’d fallen asleep on the couch with the dog, and we ate cold cereal in the dark because the kitchen light was broken. Remember? You said it was the most honest anniversary you’d ever had.”

She laughed, a soft, surprised sound. “I did say that. But we’re not eating cereal for five years.”

“No,” he agreed, “but we could do the other part. The part where we didn’t try to make it perfect.” He reached for her hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “We’ve spent five years building this life without a ring or a license. Maybe the best way to mark it is to just… be in it. Fully. No reservations, no plans. Cook something simple, sit on the porch, talk.”

Mara looked at the menus, then back at him. The idea settled in her chest, warm and right. “The porch needs sweeping.”

“I’ll sweep the porch.”

She smiled. “Then I’ll make the pasta. And we can open that bottle of wine now, while we argue about how much garlic is too much.”

Daniel raised his glass. “To five years of arguing about garlic.”

She clinked her glass against his. “And to not needing a reason to celebrate it.”


The September light was fading to amber across the kitchen table, where a half-empty carton of Thai food sat between Lena and Mark. They were debating, without much heat, the question of their tenth anniversary.

“We could do the tasting menu at Aveline,” Mark said, leaning back in his chair. He ran a hand through his hair, a habit when he was trying to sell an idea. “Make a real night of it. Dress up. Remember that little table by the window?”

Lena smiled, tracing the rim of her water glass. “I remember you spilling red wine on my favorite silk blouse.”

“An act of passion,” he said, grinning.

She shook her head, her smile lingering. “It’s tempting. But ten years feels… bigger than a dinner, doesn’t it? Even a very expensive one.”

“Okay,” he said, his tone shifting from playful to attentive. “What does ‘bigger’ look like to you?”

She hesitated, then looked at him directly. “I think we should finally fix the back porch.”

Mark blinked. “The porch?”

“The boards are rotting, Mark. We’ve been talking about it for three years. We have the drawings. We have the savings account we never touch. What if we spent the weekend doing it together? Not going out, but building something. Here.”

He considered this, his gaze drifting toward the back door as if he could see the sagging steps through it. He thought of the dinners, the trips they’d taken. They were wonderful, fleeting. This was different. It was an investment in the life they’d already built, the quiet, unglamorous foundation of shared space.

“I hate that porch,” he admitted finally. “Every time I step on that one loose board, I curse a little.”

“I know,” Lena said. “I hear you.”

A comfortable silence settled between them. He reached across the table and placed his hand over hers. “Ten years,” he said. “A new porch. It’s not very romantic.”

She turned her hand over, lacing her fingers with his. “Maybe not,” she said. “But it’s us. It’s a promise to be here for ten more.” He squeezed her hand, and the decision was made.


The argument, if it could be called that, began over a half-eaten bowl of popcorn on a Tuesday night. Maya sat cross-legged on their worn, beige couch, scrolling through her phone. Across from her, in the armchair he’d claimed as his own, Liam was pretending to read a paperback, but she could see his eyes drifting toward the calendar on the wall.

“Five years next Saturday,” he said, finally breaking the comfortable silence.

“I know,” Maya replied without looking up. “I saw.”

He closed the book, using his finger as a bookmark. “So, what do you want to do? We could try to get a reservation at that new place downtown. The one with the little lights in the trees.”

Maya set her phone down. “We could. But I was thinking… maybe something less… performative? It’s not a wedding anniversary. It’s just… ours.”

Liam nodded, understanding. They had always been good at this, at translating each other’s vague feelings. “Like what? A hike?”

“Maybe. Or,” she hesitated, picking at a thread on a cushion, “we could just stay in. Cook that ridiculous pasta recipe we failed at last year. Open that bottle of wine we’ve been saving. Just… be here. In the house we’ve made together.”

He considered this, looking around the living room. At the bookshelf they’d assembled backwards and never fixed, at the ugly but beloved lamp they’d found at a garage sale. He saw the life they’d built, quiet and solid.

“No distractions?” he asked.

“No phones,” she confirmed. “Just us and a very ambitious carbonara.”

A slow smile spread across his face. “I’ll get the good parmesan. The one in the block, not the pre-shredded bag.”

Maya grinned, the tension leaving her shoulders. “Deal.” It wasn’t a grand gesture, but it was a promise. A promise to celebrate the simple, profound act of choosing each other, year after year, in the quiet comfort of their shared home.


The September air had a bite to it as Maya pulled into the driveway, the porch light already glowing warm. Inside, she found David at the kitchen table, his laptop open, a half-empty glass of iced tea sweating onto a coaster. He looked up with a small, tired smile.

“Hey,” he said. “Long day.”

“The longest,” she agreed, dropping her bag by the door. She went to the fridge and poured herself a glass of water. “So. Ten years.”

He closed the laptop with a soft click. “Ten years. It feels both monumental and just like… Tuesday.”

Maya leaned against the counter, the cool edge pressing into her back. “I was thinking about it on the drive home. We could do the whole thing—get dressed up, go to that new place downtown, the one with the small plates we can’t afford.”

David nodded, running a hand through his hair. “We could. It would be a good story to tell.”

“But?” she prompted.

“But I was also thinking,” he said, his voice tentative, “that we’ve been running ragged for weeks. My project is a nightmare, your classes are back in session. Maybe the best way to mark a decade of us is to just… stop.”

A silence settled between them, comfortable and heavy with unspoken history. Maya took a sip of her water. “You mean order a pizza, open that bottle of wine we’ve been saving, and fall asleep on the couch watching a movie we’ve seen a hundred times?”

“Something like that,” he admitted. “Maybe not even leave the house. Just be here, together, without a schedule.”

She smiled then, a real one that reached her tired eyes. “That sounds perfect, actually.” She walked over and placed a hand on his shoulder. “But I get to pick the movie.”

He reached up and covered her hand with his own. “Deal. As long as it’s not the one with the singing animals.”

“It’s our anniversary, not a hostage negotiation,” she said, laughing. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”


The September light was fading into a soft amber glow across the kitchen table, where Maya was hunched over her laptop, comparing flight prices. Leo came in from the garage, wiping his hands on a rag, and set a small, greasy part on the counter.

“What’s the damage?” he asked, nodding toward the screen.

“Too much,” Maya sighed, leaning back in her chair. “A long weekend in the mountains would be perfect, but with the car needing new tires next month, it’s just not smart.”

Leo walked over and stood behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders. “So we don’t do the mountains. It’s ten years, May. It’s a big one, but it doesn’t have to be a big production.”

She tilted her head back to look at him. “It feels like it should be. Ten years isn’t nothing.”

“I know it isn’t,” he said, his thumb tracing a small circle on her collarbone. “Remember our fifth? We tried that fancy French place and I felt like a bear in a china shop the whole time. We ended up getting burgers afterward.”

Maya laughed, the sound soft. “That was the best part of the night.”

“Exactly.” He pulled out the chair next to her and sat down. “So what’s the best part of us? It’s not a hotel with a nice view. It’s this. It’s the quiet stuff.”

She looked at him, at the sawdust still clinging to his t-shirt and the familiar, patient set of his jaw. He was right. The grand gestures had never been their language. Their love was built in shared cups of coffee, in fixing a leaky faucet together, in the comfortable silence of a Sunday afternoon.

“Okay,” she said, closing the laptop. “What if we re-do our first date? Pizza at that place on Elm, a walk by the river. But this time, we don’t have to worry about saying the wrong thing.”

A slow smile spread across Leo’s face. “And we can get the good wine instead of the cheap stuff.”

“And afterwards,” Maya added, her hand finding his on the table, “we could come home and finally hang those photos from the trip to the coast. The ones that have been leaning against the wall for six months.”

Leo squeezed her hand. “Now that sounds like a perfect anniversary.”


The September light was fading into a soft amber glow through the kitchen window as Elena closed her laptop. She found Mark on the back porch, nursing a beer and staring at the overgrown tomato plants.

“Five years,” she said, settling into the wicker chair beside him. “Next Saturday.”

Mark nodded, his thumb peeling at the label on the bottle. “I know. I was just thinking about that.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment. A neighbor’s sprinkler hissed to life, a rhythmic pulse in the quiet evening. Five years of shared mortgage payments, of arguing about whose turn it was to unload the dishwasher, of her parents asking, with increasing subtlety, if they were ever going to “make it official.”

“So,” Elena prompted. “What are we doing? Fancy dinner? A weekend trip?”

Mark took a slow sip of his beer. “We could do the trip. Book a cabin up north, do some hiking.” He paused. “But honestly? I was thinking about the water heater.”

Elena raised an eyebrow. “The water heater is not a romantic anniversary gift, Mark.”

He chuckled, a low sound in his chest. “No, hear me out. It’s been making that banging noise for a month. The plumber said it’s on its last legs. A new one is about fifteen hundred bucks.”

He turned to look at her, his expression serious. “That’s what I want to do. I want to spend our anniversary money on a new water heater. Because that’s five years, isn’t it? It’s not just the good stuff. It’s the stuff that keeps the house running. It’s an investment in the next five years of hot showers and not having a flooded basement.”

Elena stared at him, then a slow smile spread across her face. She leaned over and kissed his stubbled cheek. “You’re an idiot,” she said, her voice full of affection. “And you’re right.”

“So, no cabin?” he asked.

“No cabin,” she confirmed. “But we are ordering the good Thai food, and you’re on dish duty for a week. It’s a package deal.”

He grinned, a flash of white in the twilight. “Deal. Happy anniversary.”


The question of how to mark ten years had been circling their shared home for weeks, unspoken but present in the quiet moments of their routine. It was a Sunday afternoon when it finally landed. Maya was curled on the worn corduroy couch, a book open on her lap, while Ben stood at the kitchen island, meticulously cleaning the French press.

“So,” he said, not looking up, his voice careful. “Ten years.”

She marked her page with a finger. “Ten years.” The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of a decade spent building a life without a wedding certificate. “My mom asked if we were finally going to ‘make it legal’ to celebrate.”

Ben snorted softly, rinsing the glass carafe. “Of course she did. What did you tell her?”

“That we were considering a hot air balloon ride,” Maya said, a small smile playing on her lips.

He dried his hands on a towel and walked over, leaning against the doorframe. “A hot air balloon? You’re terrified of heights.”

“Exactly. It would be a memorable failure.” She finally looked at him, her gaze steady. “What are you actually thinking?”

Ben pushed his glasses up his nose, a familiar gesture of thought. “I was thinking about the down payment we just made on the new furnace.” He paused. “And how that felt more like a real commitment than any party we could throw.”

Maya understood. Their anniversary wasn’t about a single day, but the accumulated thousands of them. The arguments about whose turn it was to unload the dishwasher, the silent support during family crises, the shared pride in a freshly painted room.

“So, no party,” she said, not as a question.

“No party,” he confirmed. He walked over and sat on the edge of the couch by her feet. “I was thinking we could take that money and finally redo the backyard. Build the stone patio we’ve been talking about for five years. A permanent thing. For us.”

Maya looked out the window at the patch of uneven grass, imagining the smooth, cool stones. A space for quiet mornings with coffee and long evenings with friends. It wasn’t a ring or a trip, but it was a promise. A foundation.

She reached out and rested her hand on his knee. “I’d like that,” she said. “Let’s build the patio.”


The September air had a crisp snap to it, the kind that made the porch swing feel less like a summer luxury and more like a fall necessity. Maya sipped her coffee, watching a squirrel bury an acorn with frantic energy. Inside, through the open kitchen window, she could hear the clatter of a pan and David’s low, tuneless humming.

He came out a few minutes later, holding two plates of scrambled eggs and toast. He sat beside her, the swing groaning under his weight. “Okay,” he said, handing her a plate. “Ten years. We need a plan.”

Maya took a bite of toast. “That’s what I’ve been thinking about. But everything feels either too big or not big enough. A trip to Europe is too much. A nice dinner is just… Tuesday.”

David nodded, staring out at the yard. “Right. It’s not a wedding anniversary. It’s not a birthday. It’s the day I conned you into letting me move in.” He grinned. “I should probably just get you a new vacuum cleaner.”

“Don’t you dare,” she said, nudging him with her elbow. “I was thinking about the beginning. You know, before all this.” She gestured vaguely at the house, the mortgage, the shared car.

“The dive bar,” he said, his voice softening. “The one with the sticky floors and the jukebox that only played Tom Petty. That’s where we had our first real conversation.”

“Exactly. What if we just… recreated it? Not the bar, but the feeling. We could pack a cooler, drive up to that overlook on Route 9, the one we found that first summer. No phones. Just us, some good food, and that terrible playlist we made our first year.”

David put his plate down and turned to her, his expression serious. “You’d do that? Spend our tenth anniversary listening to early 2000s indie rock in a parking lot?”

Maya smiled. “I’d rather do that with you than anything else in the world. It’s real. It’s us.”

He reached over and squeezed her hand. “Deal. But I’m bringing a decent bottle of wine. We’re not twenty-two anymore.” The squirrel, having successfully buried its nut, chattered at them from the base of the oak tree, as if sealing the agreement.


The unseasonably warm October afternoon had faded into a crisp evening, and the first dry leaves were skittering across the patio. Inside, Maya was curled on one end of the worn leather sofa, a half-empty mug of tea growing cold on the side table. She was scrolling through a travel app, her brow slightly furrowed.

“Okay,” she said, without looking up. “Flights to Asheville that weekend are surprisingly reasonable. We could get a little cabin, do some hiking, hit up a couple of breweries.”

From the kitchen, where he was drying a pot, Ben considered this. “Hiking,” he repeated, the word neutral.

Maya finally glanced over, a knowing smile touching her lips. “It’s a milestone. Five years. We should do something that feels… significant.”

Ben hung the dish towel over the oven handle and walked into the living room, settling onto the arm of the sofa near her feet. “I get that. And the leaves would be great. But we’ve done the ‘rent-a-cabin-and-hike’ thing for the last two years. It’s starting to feel less like an adventure and more like a routine.”

“A pleasant routine,” she countered, locking her phone and placing it on the cushion. “What are you thinking?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I was thinking about that little jazz club we went to on our second date. The one downtown. We haven’t been back since. We could get dressed up, have a late dinner at that Italian place with the checkered tablecloths, and then go listen to some music. No packing, no driving, no trail mix.”

Maya considered this. It was true; their lives had become a comfortable loop of work, home, and the occasional weekend trip. The idea of a night out in their own city held a different kind of appeal. A celebration of the life they’d built here, in this house.

“That does sound good,” she admitted. “Really good, actually. But I still want it to feel like an event.”

Ben stood and offered her his hand. “Okay. How about a compromise? We do the fancy dinner and jazz on our actual anniversary. Then, for the long weekend, we don’t go anywhere. We stay here. We sleep in, cook a huge breakfast, and finally build that bookshelf that’s been leaning against the office wall for a month.”

A genuine laugh escaped her. “So, a celebration of us *and* a tackling of the to-do list?”

He grinned. “It’s the five-year mark. That feels pretty honest.”

Maya took his hand and let him pull her to her feet. “Deal,” she said. “As long as the bookshelf building includes a break for takeout and a movie.”

“Obviously,” he said, pulling her into a hug. It wasn’t a cabin in the mountains, but it was theirs. And for them, that was the point.


The day had started like any other Saturday—coffee, the newspaper scattered across the kitchen island, and the low hum of the dishwasher. But the date on the calendar had been circled in red ink for weeks. Ten years. Not of marriage, but of them. Of this house, this life they’d built without a license or a ceremony.

Maya leaned against the counter, cradling her mug. “So,” she said, her voice soft in the morning quiet. “What do you want to do?”

Daniel looked up from an article about the city’s new zoning laws. He knew exactly what she meant. He’d been thinking about it too, turning the idea over in his mind like a smooth stone. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “We could do the whole fancy dinner thing. Get dressed up. Go to that place downtown with the overpriced appetizers.”

Maya wrinkled her nose. “We did that last year. And the year before. It’s starting to feel like a performance.”

He nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. “Right. A performance of a couple celebrating an anniversary. And we’re not really a performance kind of couple.”

“No,” she agreed, setting her mug down. “We’re more of a ‘fix the squeaky screen door and then get tacos’ kind of couple.”

Daniel laughed, a genuine, warm sound. “That’s us. The ten-year itch for home improvement and carne asada.” He folded the paper. “What if we just… did that? The thing we actually do.”

Maya tilted her head, considering. “Fix the door? That’s romantic.”

“No, not just that.” He stood and walked over to her, resting his hands on her hips. “What if we finally built that bookshelf for the living room? The one that’s been leaning against the wall in the office for six months. And then we get takeout from El Fuego, open that bottle of wine we’ve been saving, and just sit on the couch surrounded by our books and our mess.”

Maya’s face softened. “That sounds perfect.” She reached up and touched his cheek. “It’s us. Ten years of us.”

He pulled her into a hug. “Happy anniversary, Maya.”

She smiled against his chest. “Happy ten years, Daniel.”


The late afternoon sun slanted through the kitchen window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air above the sink. Maya was at the counter, carefully drizzling olive oil over a bowl of chopped tomatoes. Across the room, Leo leaned against the doorframe, a dish towel slung over his shoulder.

“So,” he began, his voice casual, “the big one’s next month. Ten years.”

Maya didn’t look up, but a small smile played on her lips. “Ten years since you awkwardly asked for my number at that terrible coffee shop.”

“The coffee was terrible,” he corrected. “My execution was flawless.”

She finally met his eyes, her expression softening. “It was endearingly clumsy. So, what are you thinking? We haven’t really talked about it.”

Leo pushed off the doorframe and walked over, leaning his hip against the counter beside her. “I know we’re not the big party types. And a fancy dinner feels… expected. We do that for birthdays.”

“Agreed,” Maya said, wiping her hands on a towel. “I was thinking about that too. It’s a milestone, but it’s ours. The big moments happened here, not in a banquet hall.”

“Right,” he said, nodding. “Like the night the water heater broke and we spent three hours mopping the basement, then ordered pizza and ate it sitting on the floor.”

Maya laughed. “I was just thinking about that. Or when we spent the entire weekend building that bookshelf and it’s still slightly crooked.”

“It has character,” Leo grinned. “So… what if we marked it the way we’ve actually lived it? Not by leaving, but by staying.”

Maya’s eyes lit up. “What do you mean?”

“We take a day off work. We make pancakes for breakfast. We go for a long walk, the one by the river. Then we come home and cook that complicated pasta recipe we’ve been too intimidated to try. We open a bottle of the good wine. Just us. No phones.”

Maya’s smile widened, a genuine, full smile that reached her eyes. “That sounds perfect,” she said, reaching for his hand. “A celebration of the ordinary. Because that’s what this has been, in the best possible way.”


The September light was fading into a soft orange through the kitchen window when Lena closed her laptop. Across the table, Mark was scrolling on his phone, a half-empty mug of cold coffee beside him. She watched him for a moment, the familiar crease between his brows, before speaking.

“Ten years,” she said.

He looked up, and the crease vanished. “Ten years,” he echoed, setting the phone down. “It feels both like a lifetime and about five minutes.”

“I know.” Lena leaned back, stretching her arms overhead. “So, what do you want to do? For the anniversary.”

Mark drummed his fingers on the worn oak table they’d bought together at a garage sale in their second year. “I was thinking about that. We could do the whole thing—get dressed up, go to that French place downtown, drop two hundred bucks on dinner.”

“We could,” Lena said, her tone noncommittal. “Or?”

“Or,” he continued, a small smile playing on his lips, “we could do what we actually want to do. Which is rent a cabin upstate for the weekend. The one with the wood stove and no cell service. Just us, some good wine, and that hiking trail we got lost on when we were twenty-five.”

Lena felt a warmth spread through her chest that had nothing to do with the lingering heat of the day. It was so perfectly them. Not the grand gesture, but the shared memory, the comfort. “I was going to suggest a fancy dinner,” she admitted. “Because it felt like what you’re supposed to do for a decade. But honestly? The thought of putting on heels makes me want to take a nap.”

Mark laughed, a low, easy sound. “See? This is why we work. So, it’s settled. Cabin it is.”

He reached across the table, his hand covering hers. Lena turned her palm up, lacing her fingers with his. Ten years of shared homes, shared decisions, and a quiet understanding that the best way to mark their time together was simply to be together, doing the things they loved most. The planning was done, and it felt exactly right.


The late afternoon sun cut across the kitchen counter, illuminating a thin layer of dust on the cookbooks. Maya traced a line through it with her finger as she listened to Ben’s keys clatter into the ceramic bowl by the door.

“Hey,” he said, his voice carrying the slight wear of a Friday. He leaned against the doorframe, loosening his tie. “You’re deep in thought.”

She turned, offering a small smile. “Just thinking. Ten years, Ben. A whole decade of us.”

He walked over and wrapped an arm around her waist, his chin resting on the top of her head. “It doesn’t feel that long, does it? Except maybe when I think about how terrible our first apartment was.”

Maya laughed, the sound soft. “The radiator that clanked like a dying robot. We’ve come a long way.” She gestured vaguely at the house around them, the quiet suburban street visible through the window. “Which is why I was thinking we should do something… significant. Not just a dinner reservation we could make any week.”

Ben pulled back, his eyes meeting hers. “I was thinking the same thing. I almost booked a weekend at that inn in the Berkshires, the one with the fireplace. But then I thought, is that really us? Sitting by a fire, sipping wine?”

“We do like wine,” she countered, but her expression was thoughtful. “But you’re right. It feels like a performance of a milestone, not a celebration of it.”

He nodded, his thumb rubbing a gentle circle on her hip. “So what does celebrating us look like? Not the highlight reel, but the real thing.”

Maya’s gaze drifted past him to the backyard, where the maple tree they’d planted their first spring was now casting a long shadow over the patchy grass. “Maybe it’s about the things we keep saying we’ll do. The stuff that gets pushed aside for work or errands.”

A slow smile spread across Ben’s face. “Like finally building that fire pit? The one we bought the stones for two years ago?”

“Exactly,” she said, her eyes brightening. “Spend the day doing it together. Getting our hands dirty. Then, that night, we light a fire in our own yard. We can make those elaborate hot dogs with the fancy buns from the Italian deli, and we can talk. No phones. Just us, under the tree we planted.”

Ben’s smile widened, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “That sounds perfect. It’s not a grand gesture. It’s better. It’s building something, right here.” He pulled her into a proper hug. “Happy ten years, Maya.”

She sank into his embrace, feeling the solid, familiar warmth of him. “Happy ten years, Ben.”


The September evening light slanted through the kitchen window, catching the fine layer of dust on the cookbooks. Maya leaned against the counter, a dish towel slung over her shoulder, watching Leo meticulously chop cilantro. They’d been debating for the last ten minutes, the easy rhythm of their shared kitchen a comfortable backdrop to the discussion.

“A weekend in the city,” Maya said, her voice carrying a hint of longing. “A nice hotel, that little Italian place we love, maybe a show. It would feel… significant.”

Leo swept the cilantro into a neat pile and reached for a lime. “It would also feel like a lot of logistics and a lot of money,” he countered, not unkindly. “We just bought a new water heater, remember? And the city is exhausting.” He squeezed the lime over the salsa, the sharp citrus scent filling the air. “What about that hike up to Eagle Peak? The one we did on our first anniversary. Pack a lunch, make a day of it. Just us.”

Maya sighed, pushing a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “Leo, that was seven years ago. My knees are seven years older. I want to celebrate us, not test my joints.” She looked around the room, at the mismatched mugs on the shelf, the photo of them at a friend’s wedding stuck to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a taco. “We live here. We’ve built this whole life here. Maybe the best way to mark it is to just… be here, but make it special.”

Leo set down the knife, his expression softening. He understood. The anniversary wasn’t about a grand gesture, but about acknowledging the quiet, profound fact of them. “Okay,” he said. “So, a staycation. But not a lazy one. A deliberate one.”

A slow smile spread across Maya’s face. “Like, we actually set the table with the good plates? Cook something elaborate together? No phones.”

“No phones,” he agreed, his eyes lighting up. “And we can finally open that bottle of wine we’ve been saving for a ‘special occasion.’ We can make the occasion.”

Maya nodded, the tension leaving her shoulders. The idea felt right, not a compromise, but a creation. “And maybe,” she added, “we can dig out that old photo album. Remind ourselves how we got here.”

Leo reached for her hand across the counter, his fingers still smelling of lime and cilantro. “Deal. It’s a date.”


The September air had a crisp snap to it as Ben finished wiping down the kitchen counters. Through the window over the sink, he watched Maya kneeling in the front garden, her hands plunged into the dark soil as she divided a clump of hostas. Ten years. The number felt both immense and fleeting.

Maya came in a few minutes later, brushing dirt from her jeans. She poured herself a glass of water and leaned against the counter, catching his thoughtful expression. “You’re doing the thing,” she said, a small smile playing on her lips. “The ‘deep in contemplation of the universe’ thing.”

He chuckled, tossing the sponge into the sink. “Just thinking. Ten years is a long time to put up with someone’s snoring.”

“Ah, but you make a fantastic lasagna,” she countered, her eyes warm. “It’s a fair trade.” She took a sip of water. “So, what’s the verdict? We’d talked about maybe a weekend in the mountains, or that new tasting-menu place downtown.”

Ben sighed, pulling out a kitchen chair and sitting down. “I know. And both sound great. But I was just thinking… we’ve done the fancy dinners. We’ve done the weekend getaways. And they’re wonderful.” He paused, searching for the right words. “But what actually makes this, *us*, work is the smaller stuff. The Sunday mornings with coffee and the paper. The way you force me to watch terrible reality TV. The fact that we just spent an hour on a Saturday, one of us cleaning, one of us gardening, not even talking, and it felt… right.”

Maya set her glass down and walked over to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her. “So, no mountain cabin?” she asked, her voice gentle, not disappointed.

“Maybe not this year,” he said. “What if we just… stayed here? We could order from that Italian place we love, the one that delivers the ridiculous garlic knots. We could open that bottle of wine we’ve been saving. We could finally start that puzzle your mom got us for Christmas two years ago.”

A genuine smile spread across her face. “That sounds perfect,” she said. “But I’m picking the music, and you’re not allowed to complain when I put on the 90s pop playlist.”

He grinned, covering her hand with his own. “Deal.” The grand gesture was forgotten; the quiet comfort of home was celebration enough.