Joshua’s grip tightened around your hand, his jaw clenched. His usual calm, composed demeanor had vanished, replaced with something darker, something far more intense. His voice was low, but it cut through the silence like a blade.

"Where’s your ring?"

You swallowed hard, unable to meet his eyes. The weight of his question hung in the air between you, heavy and suffocating.

"It’s not mine,"

you finally whispered, your voice shaky.

"It was my sister’s."

His eyes narrowed, the flash of anger unmistakable. His grip tightened for just a moment longer before he let go of your hand, but the tension between you remained, thick and palpable.

"That ring is yours now,"

He said, his voice calm but laced with a quiet, seething intensity.

"It doesn’t matter whose it was. You’re wearing it. Because you're my wife."

The word wife lingered in the air, heavy with meaning. You felt a sharp pang in your chest—guilt, confusion, something you couldn’t quite name.

He turned away suddenly, striding to the door with sharp, decisive movements. His hand grabbed the keys off the counter as if he had already made up his mind.

"Get in the car,"

he said, voice clipped, not even looking back at you.

"We’re going to get you a new ring. One that’s yours. And you will wear it."

His tone was final, leaving no room for argument.

You stood frozen for a moment, torn between the pull of your emotions and the undeniable force that was Joshua. Part of you wanted to resist, to tell him it didn’t matter, that no ring could erase the tangled mess of feelings between you. But another part—a deeper, quieter part—knew that Joshua was determined to make sure you wore his ring, as a symbol of what you were to him now, no matter what had come before.