I stand outside Lily's bedroom door and tell myself this is simple. Straightforward.
Except my pulse is elevated. My breathing requires conscious effort to keep steady, each inhale measured and deliberate instead of automatic. The kind of control that reveals exactly how little control I actually have.
This is absurd. It's a ring. A prop for the charade we're maintaining, nothing more complicated than that. I asked Artan to choose it this morning, told him to get something appropriate, something that would photograph well if it came to that, something that looked like I gave a damn about the woman wearing it.
He handed me the box an hour ago without comment.
I should just knock. Hand it over. Move on.
Instead, I'm standing here like some nervous boy about to ask a girl to prom, and the comparison pisses me off enough that I finally lift my hand and rap my knuckles against the wood.
Footsteps approach from inside, light and quick, the sound of high heels against hardwood.
The door opens.
Red floods my compromised vision. Bright and unmistakable even through the blur, the color so vivid it almost hurts. Her shape is diffuse, edges soft and undefined, but I know it's her immediately. The way she moves, the slight hesitation before she settles her weight, the sound of her breathing, faster than usual like she's nervous too.
"You look beautiful." The words come out before I can stop them, automatic and entirely true despite the fact that I can barely see her.
She laughs. The sound is light, teasing, with an edge of genuine amusement that makes something in my chest loosen fractionally. "You can't even see me properly."
"Red is your color."
The laughter stops. I hear the shift in her breathing, the small intake of air that signals surprise. Then something warmersettles into her voice, something that wraps around my ribs and squeezes.
"You can see colors now? Luan, that's wonderful. I'm so happy for you."
The genuine pleasure in her voice isn't for herself, isn't calculating what my improved vision means for her situation or her safety. It's just pure, uncomplicated happiness that I'm getting better. That I'm recovering. That the darkness is receding.
"You look quite handsome too," Lily adds, quieter now, almost shy, like she's not sure she's allowed to say it.
I don't know how to do this. Don't know the protocol for giving a woman a ring.
So I just extend my hand, the box sitting in my palm like a small grenade. "The engagement ring. You should wear it now. For appearances."
The words come out stiff, and I hear how it sounds, how completely devoid of anything resembling romance or sentiment or basic human warmth.
She takes the box hesitantly, her fingers brushing mine for half a second before pulling away. I hear the small click of the hinge, the barely audible sound of her breath catching.
"It's perfect." Her voice breaks slightly on the last word, genuine wonder bleeding through. Then she seems to catch herself,remembering that this isn't real. "It will make your real fiancée very happy someday. If she doesn't mind wearing a used ring. I mean, not that it's really used. Well, it will be used but not used used. You know what I mean. It's just for show. So it doesn't count as used. But technically it will have been worn. So maybe you should mention that. Or maybe not. I don't know the tradition for previously engaged rings. Is there a tradition?…"
She's babbling, words tumbling over each other in that way that means she's nervous, that her brain is moving faster than her mouth can keep up with and she can't quite make them sync.
It's oddly reassuring that I'm not the only one uncomfortable with this moment. That whatever strange territory we're navigating, we're both equally lost in it.
"Come on," I say, cutting off the spiral before it can gain more momentum. "Artan and Erion are waiting."
I guide her toward the living room, my hand finding the small of her back automatically. The touch grounds me, orients me in space, gives me a reference point that's warm and solid and real. She's wearing something smooth, silk maybe, the fabric sliding under my palm as she moves.
Artan and Erion are already there. I can make out their shapes against the lighter background of the windows, dark suits and controlled postures, both of them radiating the particular tension that comes from successfully executing violence and waiting to see if there will be consequences.
"Did you manage to sort the problem?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral, casual, like we're discussing a shipment delay instead of arson.
"It all went according to plan," Artan says, his tone matching mine perfectly. Nothing in his voice suggests we're discussing anything more significant than a minor business inconvenience.
I nod. The Irish will understand. Back off our territory or next time we won't be so careful about casualties. Next time it won't be just merchandise going up in flames.
"And the other matter?"
