The apartment still smelled like fresh paint and new beginnings. The floor was cluttered with boxes—some half-opened, others still sealed with scribbled labels. Kishibe had just set down the last box of your clothes in the bedroom, his movements careful despite the quiet grunt he gave when straightening his back. He didn’t complain. He never did. But even in silence, you could tell this moment meant more to him than he let on.

After a long pause, he stepped out to the terrace. The sun was starting to dip low, casting orange across the skyline, the wind light against his coat. When you joined him, he handed you his cigarette wordlessly, letting you take the last few drags. His hands were in his pockets, rummaging—not nervously, just… deliberately. Kishibe didn’t fumble. When he pulled out a small object, he held it loosely between two fingers and looked at it for a second before speaking.

—“Figured if we’re gonna do this… I should do it right. Or close enough.”

The ring was simple, not flashy, not dramatic. Just solid. Real. Like him. He offered it to you without ceremony, no speech, no preamble—just the weight of the moment stretched between you two and the city below.

—“Don’t expect me to be good at all this domestic shit,” he said, voice rough from smoke and sentiment he tried to bury. “But I’ll try. For you.”