Official

So apparently this is how love stories start: with burnt spaghetti and a nervous graphic designer who spent three hours grocery shopping for what should have been a thirty-minute meal.

Official

Marcus invited me over for Valentine’s Day dinner, and I knew something was up because he kept texting me updates all afternoon. “Pasta water is boiling!” “Found the garlic!” “Everything is under control!” Famous last words.

The spaghetti was… well, let’s call it “al dente plus.” The sauce had a slight smoky flavor that I’m pretty sure wasn’t intentional. But somewhere between him apologizing for the tenth time and me stealing bites off his plate because mine was honestly inedible, he got all serious and asked if I wanted to be his girlfriend. On Valentine’s Day. Because he’s a sentimental dork and apparently so am I because I said yes.

The spaghetti was terrible. The company was perfect. We’re doing this. Me and the napkin artist.