He rushes into the silence. “It needs to look official. If you’re not wearing one, the tabloids will zoom in on your hands and start think pieces. I don’t want them in your teeth if I can help it. It’s insured. If you hate it, we’ll swap it. Or return it. Whatever you want.” He’s babbling, and it’s strangely endearing to see him like this.
He lifts it from the box with ridiculous care. The stone winks, the little leaf-shaped side stones catch and throw the light in quick, happy pulses. He holds my hand like it’s a contract he wants to read twice, steady and warm, thumb settling in that place between my thumb and wrist where it calms me down without trying.
“Okay?” he says, soft.
I nod, because speech seems ambitious.
He slides it on.
The band settles like it’s been waiting. My finger feels heavier and somehow lighter, the way your chest does after a deep breath you didn’t realize you needed. It fits. Itfits.
“Looks right,” he says before he can stop himself, and then he flinches like he’s said too much. “I mean—looks official.”
“It’s beautiful,” I say, because I need him to know how much I love it. “Thank you.”
He clears his throat. “I’m just glad you like it.” Then he drops onto the far end of the couch, feet up, phone in hand, scrolling like this is just another Saturday.
Like he didn’t just take care of me better than anyone I’ve ever dated. Like he didn’t pick the exact ring I would have chosen myself—because somehow, he knows me that well.
And the worst part? He’s not even trying.
He doesn’t see this as romantic. Or complicated. He’s just taking care of a friend, I remind myself.
***
That same evening I feel a million times better and suddenly realize I’m ravenous. It’s sometime after midnight when I shuffle into the kitchen, barefoot, craving water and something carb-heavy and delicious.
The house is quiet—resting in that strange, sacred silence where every sound feels ten times louder.
I’m too tired to be fancy, so I go straight for white bread, mayo, and a haphazard stack of cheese and turkey slices that would make Margot cry. I don’t even bother with a plate. Just slap it together, lean on the counter, and take a massive bite like a raccoon who’s lost all shame.
It’s glorious.
I’m halfway through when I hear footsteps.
I turn around, mouth full, only to find Ash standing in the doorway, shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hair sticking up.
He looks… off. Pale. Uneasy. His jaw’s tight. Shoulders tense. Not his usual cocky, I-own-this-room posture.
“Hey,” I say softly.
“Hey,” he answers, voice gravelly. A flicker of something raw crosses his face—just for a second—before he smooths it away.
“Couldn’t sleep?” I ask, swallowing fast and trying to wipe mayo off my chin like a functioning adult.
He hesitates. Then shakes his head. “Bad dream.”
Something in his voice makes me pause. It’s quiet. But not casual.
I fill a glass, then lean against the counter across from him. “You okay?”.
He just shakes his head.
My sandwich suddenly feels less important.
“You want to sit?” I nod toward the couch.
He hesitates—just for a beat—then follows me into the living room.
