“Róisín Malloy,” he says, voice low and unmistakably himself. Northern. Rough around the edges. Earnest in the way that hurts most. “I’ve loved you longer than I’ve hated you. And I’ll love you long after you stop pretending you don’t feel it.”
My vision blurs, throat burns.
“Marry me,” he says simply. “Not because they made us. But because it’s always been you.”
The room is silent. The jeweller might as well not exist. I nod once. Then again.
“Yes,” I whisper.
The word breaks something open in me. Finn stands, takes my hand with care that feels cruel in its gentleness, and slides the ring onto my finger. It fits perfectly.Of course it does.
We don’t speak. We don’t look away. Everything between us—love, rage, grief, betrayal—sits heavy and unresolved, humming like a string pulled too tight.
Finn releases my hand first. Straightens. And just like that, the mask settles back into place.
“Good,” he says quietly. Then, to the jeweller, businesslike once more, “Now let’s get on with the wedding band set.”
I stare at the ring on my finger. At the future we broke. At the one we’re being forced to build anyway. And I wonder which of us this marriage will destroy first.
I don’t speak. The jeweller clears his throat and opens a second case, then another, laying out pairs with careful hands. Bands meant to complement. Meant tomatch. Gold echoing gold. Weight chosen to sit beside the ring already claiming my finger.
“These would sit well together,” he says gently, sliding one pair forward. “Designed to balance the setting without overpowering it.”
I glance down. Look at them without really seeing them.
“That’s fine,” I say quietly.
The jeweller hesitates. “Are you certain, miss? We can explore other—”
“It’s fine,” I repeat.
My voice sounds distant to my own ears. Finn doesn’t look at me. He looks at the rings. Assesses. Decides.
“Yes,” he says. “Those.”
The jeweller nods quickly and retrieves his tools, moving with renewed purpose. He takes Finn’s hand first, measures, murmurs numbers under his breath. Then he turns to me.
“May I?”
I extend my hand automatically. He measures my finger carefully, adjusts once, then again. Notes everything down. He glances up at me, clearly unsure whether to ask the next question.
“Would you like an inscription inside the bands?” he asks politely. “A date. Initials. A phrase, perhaps.”
Finn shakes his head before I can answer. “No.”
The jeweller scribbles it down. “Very well.”
He talks about timelines. Custom casting. Final fittings before Valentine’s Day. The words wash over me without landing. I stare at the ring on my finger, the diamond catching light every time I move without meaning to.
This was supposed to be joy. This was supposed to be whispered and hidden and sacred. Instead it feels like something set too carefully into place long after the damage was done.
Finn’s voice cuts through faintly. Controlled. Efficient. “That’ll be all.”
The jeweller nods, packs up, promises delivery dates I don’t register. I don’t move. I don’t speak. I just sit there, staring at my hand like it belongs to someone else entirely, while the future settles quietly around me without asking.
The jeweller leaves quietly, the door closing with a soft, merciful click. Silence settles. Finn exhales like the room has finally stopped holding its breath. He turns toward me, a trace of that infuriating calm slipping back into his posture.
“There,” he says lightly. “You got your way again.”
