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People often forget that you can find romance in the most mundane of things, that love exists in the most simplest of gestures.
Chloe was getting some water at the fountain in the common area of Beca’s music label when one of these moments happened.
“Shoot your shot!”
Chloe turns at the sound of the man’s voice behind her. It belonged to one of Beca’s coworkers and she can just make out him slipping behind the wall of the opening to the common area with a subtle wink before her attention lands on Beca, her wife, walking towards her, her own water bottle in tow.
Chloe grins, as she always does when in the same vicinity as the love of her life. “Fancy meeting you here!”
Beca chuckles, nervously, and lifts a hand to rub it at the nape of her neck as if working up the courage to pop the following question:
“You’re really cute. Wanna go out with me?”
Her dark blue eyes are downcast, just like that time eight years ago when they were both in their twenties in university, high on the serotonin and adrenaline of yet another win with their Bellas, after a group hug, when Beca had also asked her out with the same expression, her bottom lip snagged between her teeth and a hopeful lift to her eyebrows.
Chloe’s heart leaps in her chest in the exact same way back then, too, now, like she had been waiting forever for that feeling, that confirmation, that Beca liked her back in that all consuming, I-might-be-sick overwhelming way that Chloe had felt towards her best friend ever since she’d joined their silly little acapella group.
(Even though Chloe considers herself a romantic– she had been reading romance novels ever since middle school, after all– she feels like Beca might just secretly be a bigger one.)
She sets aside her water cup, reaches forward and repeats the gesture with Beca’s, in favor of taking both of Beca’s hands in hers. Beca’s fingers were cold, so she threads them together and squeezes to breathe some warmth into them.
“Yes. Of course I would love to go out with you.”
Beca’s face lit up, like a dang near Christmas tree, and her lips quirk into a huge relieved smile just like they did when Chloe had first said yes all those years ago as well. (Pft, as if Chloe could say no.) She returns Chloe’s squeeze.
“Cool beans.”
And it may be cheesy, and corny, and just a tad bit dumb especially since both of their matching wedding rings are digging into their skins, but it still made Chloe’s day. She already knew that nothing would wipe that dopey grin off her face for the next twenty four hours, and she’s completely satisfied with that fact.
When they got home later that day, after dinner and they’re cuddling on the couch with the heater on and a movie playing in the background, Chloe talks about it, mentioning the shoot your shot comment.
“Was he new or something? What was that about?”
Beca snorts, burying her face into the crook of Chloe’s neck where her breath ghosts over Chloe’s collarbones, “Nah. I told him that I was about to ask out the hottie at the fountain and he’s simply encouraging me. He knows that we’re married, Chlo. Just cheering me on like the dork that he is.”
“Like the dork that you are, you mean,” Chloe corrects, pressing a soft kiss to the center of Beca’s forehead. She finds the whole thing incredibly cute, even though it was small and mundane.
Who says romance is dead just because you’re married? It survives even past death, unlike those classic vows for marriage.