Titus’s hand drifted toward the ring.
Consciously this time—fingers sliding to the band.
Viper caught his wrist gently.
Not a grip.
A stop.
Titus stilled. Looked up at him.
No defensiveness. Just a pause—measuring, recalibrating.
“What—” Titus started.
“Don’t,” Viper said quietly.
The word wasn’t sharp. It was settled.
Titus’s jaw tightened, then eased. He let his hand fall back to his lap, his gaze dropping to the ring instead. The emerald caught a passing streetlight, flaring once before dimming again.
“You used your name,” Titus said after a moment. Not an accusation. Statement.
“Yes.”
“With her.”
“Yes.”
Viper didn’t soften it. Didn’t dress it up. He turned slightly, enough that Titus could see his face in the low glow of the city.
Calm. Intent. No apology.
“She needed to know you’re mine,” Viper said. “And I needed her to hear it.”
A brief jolt went through Titus. His mouth curved faintly—not quite a smile. “Since when?”
Viper paused. Long enough to be honest with himself. The desert came to mind. Then, earlier than that—the safe house, the moment against the fridge. Maybe it had started before he’d given it a name.
“For a while,” he said, keeping it deliberately vague.
Titus studied him, gaze intent, as if trying to read past the words.
“So that wasn’t strategy…”
Viper shook his head. “That was my choice.”
Silence stretched between them—charged, thoughtful. The limo hummed on, smooth as a held breath.
“Are you asking me for an answer?” Titus asked, fingers turning the ring.
“No.”
“But you want one.”
Viper considered that. Not the timing—the truth of it.
“Yes. And soon,” he said. “But not tonight.”
