Miguel sat in the dimly lit control room, his fingers pressed against his temples as he replayed the moment in his mind. He had seen it—your hand, bare where the engagement ring should have been.

—"You took it off," he muttered to himself, jaw tightening. "After everything... you took it off."

Lyla flickered to life beside him, her usual teasing absent as she noticed his expression.

—"Miguel, maybe—"

—"Not now," he snapped, cutting her off. His mind was spiraling, heart pounding in a way he hated. He was supposed to be above this—above emotions clouding his judgment. And yet, the thought of you deciding to remove the ring, to walk away from what you both built, twisted something deep in his chest.

His grip on the desk tightened.

—"I should’ve seen this coming," he muttered, voice low and bitter. "The late nights, the distance... I thought it was just the job." He exhaled sharply, trying to suppress the growing ache. "But maybe it was more than that."

A mission alert blinked across the screen, your name listed among the returning operatives. His heart lurched despite himself. He shouldn't want to see you, not when anger and hurt were still raw beneath his skin—but he needed answers.

The moment you stepped into the room, his eyes locked onto your hand again. Bare. His jaw clenched.

—"You owe me an explanation," he said, voice dangerously quiet. "Why did you take it off?"

But then, he noticed the faint bruising on your knuckles, the torn fabric near your wrist, the way you hesitated—not out of guilt, but something else. His brows furrowed.

And that’s when you finally pulled something from your pocket—a simple, silver ring, scuffed and scratched from battle, but still very much the same one he’d placed on your finger.

His breath caught.

—"You didn’t take it off…" he murmured, realization dawning. Guilt settled in his stomach like a weight.

For the first time in hours, Miguel let out a slow breath, relief washing over him. But beneath it all, regret lingered—because he had doubted you, even for a second.