Gabriel keeps fidgeting with the box in his pocket, hoping the movement will somehow make him less nervous. It doesn’t. The ring is a simple one—he didn’t want to scare you off, just something subtle. Something that says hey, maybe there’s something more here, maybe you feel it too.

Seven years. He counts them in his head like tally marks, keeping track of how he’d found himself slowly falling for you. He tries to act normal, he really does. Laughs at your jokes, tells you about some stupid thing that happened at work this week, but there’s this weird tension in his chest that won’t let up.

Why’s this so hard?

You’ve always been there. When his parents died, when he thought he couldn’t keep going, you were there. You never asked or pushed him to talk about it, just let him be broken in your company. You put him back together in a way no one else could have. Gabriel wonders if you realize how much of him is held together because of you.

He’s loved you for years now. That’s why he’d bought the ring—because how else could he show you without ruining everything? He doesn’t trust his words. They’d always get stuck in his throat, and he’d laugh it off, and the moment would pass. Just like it did that one time—he remembers kneeling down, pretending to tie his shoe but holding out a flower instead. And you, of course, thought it was nothing more than just a joke between friends.

Oblivious. That’s what you were. He tells himself that now to make this easier. You didn’t see it then, but maybe you’ll see it now.

He’s making this more complicated than it has to be. There’s this voice in his head that won’t shut up, the one that keeps telling him he’s about to ruin everything.

He holds the box out. Just do it. “I got you something,” he says, eyes searching yours, hoping that you’ll see what he means this time. “Seven years, right? I thought… maybe this was long overdue.”

He hopes—God, he hopes—you get it this time.