Blake bites his lip. I can tell by now that that’s the face he makes when he’s considering something deeply. The idea came to me one night a few weeks back, when the creeping sensation of guilt prevented me from falling asleep. This way, if we sign a prenup and Blake ultimately finds out the truth about why we got married so quickly, he’ll be able to walk away without the fear of me keeping half his assets. It’s the only fair thing for me to do.

“It’s not exactly a romantic idea, is it?” he points out.

“No, but a marriage is more than just romance,” I counter. I hesitate and continue. “It’s about building a life together. Protecting each other.”

“Let me think about it,” he says. “We have time to work it out.”

I take a deep breath. “Sure. Plenty of time. Let’s go back to looking at the fun stuff, then.”

Once the tension is broken, ideas begin to flow. It’s fun to dream up themes, toss around wedding songs, debate if it’s tacky or adorable to smash cake in each other’s faces. We talk about how the ceremony could combine his Episcopalian traditions with my vaguely Jewish ones. He says he’d like to leave a chair empty to honor his father. I savor how normal it all feels—just me and my new fiancé planning a beautiful wedding together, the way millions of couples have done before us.

It’s moments like these in which I feel closest to Blake. When chemistry crackles between us and I can lounge comfortably in his arms, it’s easy to forget how or why our relationship began. All of that fades away, and it’s clear that I could fall in love with him someday.

Blake is scrolling through wedding photos on Pinterest when it hits me: maybe I already do love him. The sensation of love might be buried under layers of anxiety and guilt and panic, but it’s still there. Blake makes me feel sturdy and safe. He’s sweet, caring, and thoughtful in a way I’ve never experienced before. I appreciate how steadfastly transparent he is with his feelings—there are no games.

It’s true that if I had met Blake under different circumstances, I would have wanted our engagement to play out differently. I would have liked to date for two or three years first, and I’d rather accept a proposal on land than bobbing away at sea. But despite those differences, I can’t ignore that my feelings for Blake have become very real. I snuggle closer to him and rest my chin on his arm. Absentmindedly, he squeezes my thigh.

“What do you think of these?” he asks, clicking to enlarge a photo of leafy green centerpieces.

“I love them. Let’s do it,” I say, burrowing a kiss into his bicep.