The warm glow of the restaurant's chandeliers reflected off the polished wine glasses as soft music played in the background. You sat across from him at a table tucked into a quiet corner—intimate, expensive, exactly the kind of place he loved to take you after a long day.

He looked effortlessly sharp, the tailored suit clinging to his frame in all the right ways. There was always something about the way he carried himself—like he belonged to a different world, and he had chosen to bring you into it.

He reached out, placing his hand palm-up on the table between you, an unspoken invitation. It was something he did often—simple, sweet, his own way of grounding you in the moment. But tonight, your hands stayed folded in your lap.

You offered a faint smile, hoping he wouldn’t notice the slight shift in your energy. Your thumb instinctively brushed over the spot on your finger that felt achingly bare. You could still feel the ghost of the ring—the one you’d lost sometime earlier that day.

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. "You’re being quiet," he said, his voice smooth but threaded with concern. "Everything alright?"

You nodded quickly, too quickly. "Just tired. Long day."

He studied you in that way he always did when he knew you weren’t saying the whole truth. Then his gaze flicked down toward your hands. The silence that followed was heavier than the background music.

His brow lifted, almost imperceptibly. "Where’s your ring?"

The question was soft, but it hit hard. You could hear the shift in his tone—not anger, just quiet worry. The kind that only made the lump in your throat grow tighter.