The change in him was a subtle shift in atmospheric pressure, the kind that makes a dog bark hours before a storm. You felt it before you could name it. It was in the way Rick’s embrace, usually a final, settling anchor, now held a fraction of a second’s hesitation, as if he were mentally measuring you for something. It was in the new, lingering quality of his silence, his gaze often fixed on you with a soft, unreadable intensity.

You noticed the furtive phone calls he’d take on the balcony, the low, conspiratorial tone. You found a scrap of thick, ivory paper in the trash, embossed with the name of a jeweler you’d pointed out in a magazine months ago, a passing daydream you’d forgotten. A cold, sharp sliver of anxiety had wedged itself under your ribs. Was he in trouble with Waller?

He’d asked you to pack a picnic, something simple. “Somewhere quiet,” he’d said, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin on the inside of your wrist. “Just us.”

So here you were, on a worn-out quilt in a secluded bend of the park, the late afternoon sun filtering through the oak leaves, dappling everything in gold. The air smelled of cut grass and damp earth. You’d brought sourdough bread, a wedge of sharp cheddar, and strawberries that stained your fingertips red. Rick was quieter than usual, his movements deliberate. He sat close, his thigh a solid line of heat against yours. He wasn’t eating much, instead watching you with that same unblinking focus, his gaze a physical caress.

“You’re being weird, Flag,” you said finally, your voice light to mask the tremor beneath. You licked a drop of strawberry juice from your thumb. “Did you accidentally volunteer for another one of Waller’s super-secret, probably-suicidal missions?”

A small, genuine smile touched his lips, the one that carved parentheses around his mouth and made your heart stutter. “No, baby. Nothing like that.”

He reached out, his fingers, usually so sure and steady when field-stripping a weapon, trembled slightly as he tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His touch lingered, tracing the shell of your ear, then cupping your cheek. His thumb swept over your cheekbone, and the world narrowed to this patch of grass, to the sound of the leaves whispering above you, to the profound, aching softness in his eyes.

“I need to ask you something,” he said, his voice low and rough, like stones tumbling in a deep river.

Your breath hitched. This was it. The confession.

Instead of speaking, he shifted. He moved off the quilt and onto one knee in the grass. The world tilted, the sounds of the park fading into a distant hum. Your mind went blank and white, all the little clues—the secrecy, the intensity, the jeweler’s paper—clicking together with a final, deafening snap.

He pulled a small, black velvet box from his jacket pocket. “Three years,” he began, his eyes locked on yours, glistening. “Three years of comin’ home to you. Of you makin’ this place… a home. Of you quietin’ all the noise in my head just by bein’ in the same room.” He swallowed, and you watched the muscle in his jaw work. “You’re the only peace I’ve ever known. The only thing that’s ever made real sense to me.”

He opened the box. Nestled inside was a ring. It wasn’t a vast, flashy diamond, but a single, perfect emerald-cut stone, the color of warm cognac, set in a simple, elegant band of rose gold. “I’ve been planning this for months,” he admitted, a faint, sheepish grin breaking through his nervousness. “I was so scared I’d mess it up. That you’d know.”

He took your left hand, his own grip warm and slightly trembling. “So. Will you? Will you let me come home to you for the rest of my life?”