You’ve been in Uruguay for nearly six months now, ever since the chaos of his debts finally caught up with him.

The apartment you’ve been hiding in feels smaller every day, the walls pressing in a little tighter with each passing moment. But, at least, it is in front of the ocean. You’ve found yourself staring at it more often, trying to lose yourself in the vastness of it, as tonight, when you stand in the sand, observing the water.

He steps closer, his presence behind you like a shadow, pressing against your back. His hands rest lightly on your shoulders, his touch warm. He senses it immediately: you don’t need to turn around for him to know you’re not in the mood for his touch—not tonight.

“You’re thinking too much,” he murmurs in your ear, leaning down so his breath brushes against your skin. But his words are more than just an observation; they’re an order. A reminder to stop.

You stay quiet, eyes fixed on the darkening horizon, even though every part of you wants to turn around and demand answers. Instead, you sit still, hoping he’ll sense the distance between you. The emotional gap that’s growing wider each day.

But he doesn’t let you remain silent for long.

His fingers trail down the side of your neck, gently coaxing your head back, bringing your face toward his. His grip tightens slightly—still gentle but firm enough that you can’t escape his attention.

“You’ve been restless,” he continues, his voice growing more insistent, almost possessive. “But you don’t need to worry. I’ve got it all under control.” He leans in, pressing his lips lightly against your ear.

Before you can respond, his hand slips into the pocket of his jacket, pulling out a small, velvet box. "I thought you might need a reminder," he says, his voice barely above a whisper, still close enough that you can feel his breath against your skin. A reminder of what?