The day is quiet when he arrives, a small black box in his hand, but his expression is unreadable—cool, almost brooding. You sit across from him, still feeling the sting of tears you cried earlier, the words you couldn’t take back echoing in your mind. He doesn’t speak at first, letting the tension stretch between you, heavy and suffocating.

Finally, he sets the box in front of you. The faint clink of metal inside draws your gaze, but his eyes hold you, sharp and intense, and you feel that same weight pressing against your chest. He doesn’t apologize for making you cry—at least, not in words—but the gift is his way of speaking: a quiet, expensive declaration that he is here, that he cares, that he notices your pain and will do anything to fix it.

You lift the lid, and the jewellery gleams in the light, dazzling and excessive, the kind of thing that makes your stomach twist with both awe and guilt. He watches you, waiting, letting your conflicted expression hang in the air. The silence says it all: he knows what he did, he knows how you felt, and he knows that now, he’s reminding you that leaving, hurting, or upsetting him has consequences—and that he will do whatever it takes to reclaim you.