The engagement ring was heavier than you remembered.

It wasn’t new—your parents had kept it locked in a velvet box since you were twenty-one, claiming it was “just in case” you ever changed your mind. You had laughed then, head full of soft promises and sweet nothings from the man who’d later ruin you with one drunken confession and lipstick on his collar.

You never thought you'd open that box again.

Now, standing in the cold grandeur of Kento Nanami’s private estate, the ring on your finger felt like a quiet echo of something unfinished. Something necessary.

He stood across from you, silent as always. Tall, sharply dressed, with unreadable eyes that flicked down to your hand. He didn’t smile—but you didn’t expect him to. You never did.

They said trauma had stolen his voice, not his mind. Not his heart.

The wedding had been brief, clinical. No speeches. No tears. Just two souls tethered by convenience and history—and maybe, if fate had any poetry left, healing.

You moved in that same night.

At first, the mansion was a tomb. Polished floors swallowed your footsteps. The housekeepers kept their distance. Nanami would leave early, return late. But he always made sure dinner was placed on the long oak table across from yours.

Never beside.

You started leaving him notes. Short ones, at first.

“The soup was good. Thank you.” “I’m repainting the guest room. Yellow is happier.” “Did you plant the gardenias outside my window?”

He didn’t reply. Not with pen or paper.

But one night, you found a new book on the nightstand. One you had mentioned weeks ago while talking to no one in particular. The bookmark sat exactly halfway through.

You started sitting beside him. Reading together in silence. He never flinched.

And sometimes, when you thought he was asleep, you'd hear it—a soft exhale that sounded like he was trying. Almost trying to speak.

One evening, a storm cut the power. The house fell into darkness, and you found him in his study, his hand trembling over a photograph he’d hidden in the bottom drawer. His parents.

You didn’t say anything. You just sat beside him.

He let you.

Time passed. Seasons changed.

You weren’t sure when it happened, but one day, you looked at him—not the CEO, not the broken heir, not the mute man your parents once promised you to—but just Kento.

The man who made sure the tea never ran out, who read every note you left, who looked at you like silence wasn’t absence—it was a kind of closeness.

And maybe that was enough.

You stood behind him on the balcony, watching the sky melt into gold and rose. He hadn’t noticed you yet, the soft breeze teasing his tie loose. And for once, he looked at peace.

You reached for his hand.

He turned. Met your eyes.

Then you spoke, voice steady, low, honest.

"I think... I’m glad it was you."

He didn’t move at first. Just looked at you—eyes unreadable, as always. But something in his gaze softened, like the slow thaw of winter.

You didn’t expect an answer. Not in words. But in the quiet that followed, you felt the shift.

His hand squeezed yours.

Not tightly. Just enough to say, I heard you.