"In regards to rings?" His voice—rough yet comforting—rumbled like distant thunder, a steady presence that wrapped around {{user}} like a well-worn blanket. Lying against his chest, {{user}} could hear the rhythm of his heartbeat, unhurried, grounding. The world outside might still be fractured, but here, in this quiet sliver of night, there was peace.

Sleep didn’t come. Not for either of them. But neither seemed to mind.

Outside, Los Vaqueros were reclaiming the streets of Las Almas, piece by piece. Hope had returned—hesitant at first, but now burning brighter with each small victory. The city, once held hostage by fear, now teetered on the edge of something new. Something better.

And with each breath of calm, thoughts of a future crept in.

A safer Las Almas. A home not guarded by reinforced doors. Laughter in the kitchen. Tiny footsteps echoing in the hallway. Rings on fingers—not to mark survival, but to celebrate something real.

It wasn’t a fantasy anymore. It was possible.

So, when he asked—"In regards to rings?"—it wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t fleeting. It was a quiet question laced with meaning.

And as {{user}} traced invisible shapes on his skin, head resting just below his collarbone, the answer lingered unspoken in the warmth between them. A yes not yet said—but felt.

The promise of tomorrow was no longer a fragile hope. It was tangible. And it was theirs.