Caprice winced theatrically. “You’re lucky you stopped.”
They were married on a Tuesday, because Caprice decided Sundays were “too predictable.” She wore a vintage lavender dress, and Leo wore a suit with mismatched socks. The officiant was a retired drag queen from their neighborhood deli. The vows were one sentence each.
“I’m not asking you to be my wife,” he said. “I’m asking you to be my next caprice. The big one. The one where we wake up one day and we’re old, and you’ve dyed your hair purple this time, and I’ve finally learned to stop planning every meal. I’m asking you to let me be your constant variable while you change everything else.” caprice - marry me
Caprice stared at him. Then at the box. Then back at him. For a terrifying second, she looked genuinely uncertain—a rare sight, like a solar eclipse.
“Not in my version,” Leo said.
The city hummed below, a distant symphony of taxis and late-night laughter, but up here on the rooftop garden, the world had shrunk to the size of a single candle flame. Nestled between terra cotta pots of overgrown rosemary and a sagging string of fairy lights, a small, velvet box sat unopened. Its owner, a man named Leo, was not kneeling. He was leaning against the parapet, swirling a glass of flat champagne, watching her.
The Caprice of Forever
Marry me, Caprice? No. Just… stay.