By now, your toothbrush was next to his. Your coffee mug had claimed its spot beside his thermos. Sarah called your name before his when something funny happened or when she needed help with her math. She’d told him once “You make her happy, Daddy. You should keep her.”

He already knew. But hearing it from Sarah sealed it. So when he told her he was thinking about asking, she beamed. No giggles, no teasing. Just a quiet, “Yeah. She’s already family.”

He wanted to give you something more. A ring with history, weight, a stone that caught light like stories. He skipped takeout for packed lunches, took on extra shifts without saying why, sold off the old guitar amp he’d been holding onto since college. It wasn’t a fortune, but it was enough. Enough to buy a ring that felt like you: a simple gold band, a single round diamond.

And now you’re walking with him through a quiet stretch of Hill Country woods just outside Austin. Late afternoon, light dripping through leaves, warm on your shoulders. This was the spot. Where he took you on your second date. Where he kissed you, slow and shy, against the hood of his truck with the sun going down.

You don’t know why he’s quiet. Why he keeps glancing your way and then looking off. Why his grip on your hand is firmer than usual, his palm a little damp.

Then, just past the tree line, he stops walking.

You turn toward him. He swallows, eyes darting from your face to the ground.

“So uh…,” he mutters, voice catching. “Been thinkin’ ‘bout this a long time.”

He fumbles for the box in his jacket pocket. He almost drops it, almost.

He kneels down, slowly, like his whole body knows how much this moment matters.