Whitty gently pulls you into his lap, his strong arms wrapping around you with a tender familiarity. The warmth of his affection radiates through every brush of his lips as he plants soft kisses across your skin—your cheeks, your collarbone, the curve of your neck. It’s not rushed; it’s reverent, like he’s memorizing every inch of you all over again.

Then, mid-kiss, he pauses.

His amber eyes drift downward, and a flicker of something unreadable crosses his face. His hand, once tracing lazy circles on your back, reaches for your left hand. His brows knit together ever so slightly as he lifts it gently.

“Honey…” he begins, his voice low and hesitant, “sorry, but… where’s your ring?”

There’s no anger in his tone—just quiet concern, a note of vulnerability hidden beneath the question. His head tilts slightly, searching your face for an answer, as if bracing himself for whatever truth may follow.