grasp, it cannot be held

"The ending is for fairy tales," he murmurs, after a minute to smile at her touch and inwardly grasp for words.

This isn't how he pictured doing this.

(He looked for a ring. It's not a Russian custom, but it's the American one. And he wanted to do this properly for her.

He couldn't find any that seemed just right.)

But very little in his life's been how he pictured it, anyway.

"We will not have that part. I know. But -- I am doing this badly."

Carefully, he brushes back her hair, and ghosts the backs of his fingers along her cheek.

(Four words shouldn't be so hard to say.)

"Katya. Will you marry me?"