Bearclaw Valley and heaven knows,

milan, he whispered, softly, then. you may cry, or laugh, or rest, or panic, and i will still think you are the most beautiful woman in the world. i always will. whether you and i are old or young. sick or healthy, a soft smile.

the man took a breath, now, careful, as he was not sure whether he was over-stepping, if this was something only he could want: i love you, milan. and ... if you love me too ... i will love you from the day our children are born to the day that they strike out on their own. when they have their own children, and when we are grey and weak, i will still love you. i will still care for you as i do today, as i do now.

another breath, sharp, gaze studious. this was the point of no return. this moment would either be his greatest joy or his harshest heartbreak. this was, quite possibly, one of the most important days of his entire life. milan deserved it, she was worth his love.

i have never been in love before ; there was no romance, nothing like this, in my youth, as the only people who ever stuck around long enough were people he was related to. no one eligible of such affection. and there have been women, girls, more like, that i thought were pretty. but none that i cared for as deeply as i do for you.

where was he going with this? he was not sure, he simply started talking. and so he would attempt to gather his thoughts, now, ordering them as such: i am new, inexperienced, when it comes to love. but i know that i love you, milan. and i want you to know that. and an anxiousness took hold of him.

what could she possibly say? did she love him, too?