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Instead of a traditional diamond, Jo had chosen an elegant pale pink sapphire. But it’s the hidden engraving on the band that always makes me smile. I snort, the sound soft and a little disbelieving. The irony is almost too good.

You’ve caught me. Yet here I am, literally hunting down my fiancée because she decided to play the Big Bad Wolf again.

I step into the kitchen, the cool tile grounding my bare feet. There, sitting proudly on the espresso machine we’ve both grown to worship, is a small envelope. A crimson wax seal secures the flap, stamped with a single, elegant W.

In hindsight, perhaps I should have recognized the warning signs. Jo has always had a particular fondness for challenging projects. Including, on occasion, me.

My mind drifts to a late evening last month, when the seeds of this ridiculous game were likely planted. I was finalizing the logistics for the company Halloween party, typing out the memo with a profound, quiet sense of irony. Less than five minutes after I hit send, Jo strolled into my office, looking entirely too smug. She bypassed the visitor chairs and leaned her hip against my desk.

“‘Costumes must adhere to standard workplace decency guidelines,’” Jo quoted, crossing her arms over a slate-gray vest. The corner of her mouth twitched. “You hypocrite!”

“Just because I personally flouted it last year does not mean I can endorse anarchy.”

“Uh-huh.” Jo reached out and snapped my laptop shut. My hands were left hovering over empty air. “It’s past eight. Let’s go home.”

I stood and reached for my jacket. “Gladly.”

It is a rare occurrence for us to leave the building together. If I let my workday bleed past six, Jo goes home without me. I’ve made a dozen silent vows to be the one waiting for her by the elevators at five o’clock sharp, to be the one leaning casually against her doorframe telling her to wrap it up. So far, my success rate is abysmal. The emails always pile up, the crises always compound.

She slipped her hand into mine as we stepped into the corridor.

We usually maintain a strict boundary between nine and five. I allow myself a lingering glance across a crowded conference room, or a soft greeting when she drops by my office, but we keep our hands to ourselves. While the initial shock wore off months ago, I still catch the occasional knowing smirk when Jo holds a door open for me.

We make a concerted effort to keep the heat contained. But once the sun goes down and the floor empties, the rules fray. Intertwining our fingers in the open hallway is a clear violation of our own boundaries. But honestly, it is rather tame compared to the absolute wreckage she makes of my composure—and my desk—when the executive floor is deserted.

We made it as far as the elevators before she spoke again.

“Love, I want you to do something for me.”

“Within reason,” I countered.

She laughed, the sound warm and bright in the empty hallway. The elevator doors slid open, and we stepped inside. Jo turned to face me, backing me toward the handrail.

“Since the twenty-sixth marks a full year since our… encounter, let me handle all anniversary plans.”

“What?”

“You only need to show up.” Jo rested a hand on my hip, her gaze holding mine.

“That sounds suspicious.” I narrowed my eyes, searching her face. With Josephine, there was always a catch.

“Let me give you this,” she said, her voice softening. “You do so much for everyone, all the time.”

My first instinct was to deflect.

“I don’t—” Her eyebrow rose, and I swallowed the lie. “Not always.”

“Whatever you say, love.”

She wasn’t wrong. Falling in love hadn’t erased my need for order. I still want everything to run smoothly, which means I still carry a ridiculous amount of professional weight. That level of control doesn’t switch off when I leave the building. But Jo grounds me, whether by forcing me to step away from a spreadsheet or standing beside me in the trenches.

“You’ll handle everything?” I asked, my voice much softer than it had been a moment ago.

“Every single detail,” she promised. Her smile spread slowly, warm and delighted. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

I should have been concerned by that response. But I was too busy being relieved. My calendar was a nightmare, and the thought of planning an anniversary that properly reflected what she meant to me had been terrifying me for weeks. Having someone else take the logistical wheel was exactly what I needed.

With free time on my hands, I directed all my efforts into finding the perfect gift for Jo. My initial brainstorming sessions had been borderline embarrassing. I caught myself creating a weighted decision matrix on my tablet before deleting it in a fit of self-aware horror. How does one quantify a gift for the woman who rewired my soul?