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The ring isn’t flashy. It’s not trendy or overdesigned or loud.

It’s her.

A princess-cut diamond—square, sharp, unapologetically bold—just over a carat-and-a-half, set in platinum that catches the light like it’s holding its breath. The edges are clean. The shape’s got structure. It’s not soft or round or delicate.

It’s strong.

Like her.

Like the way she looks at me when she’s pissed and fighting sleep and still somehow managing to hold both of our sons and the world on her shoulders.

The band’s simple. Thin, but not fragile. I didn’t want fragile. I wanted something that felt real. Like us. There’s a trail of tiny pavé diamonds wrapping halfway around it, like a secret—something only you’d notice if you were close enough to deserve the view.

It sparkles in this quiet, steady way.

Not blinding. Not boastful.

Just certain.

I spent weeks looking for it. Weeks of holding up rings and thinking too much or not enough. But this one? The second I saw it, I just… knew.

It looks like her.

Beautiful and sharp. Soft in the places that matter. Loud only when it counts.

It’s not just a ring.

It’s a promise.

Her gasp is quiet, but her hand flies to her heart.

“You, me, the twins… this home. It’s ours. And I want to make it official.”

I swallow hard, staring straight into the storm of her, steady and sure.

“So—what do you say? Will you marry me?”

Time stands still.

Not metaphorically.

I mean literally. Like the air holds its breath, the house leans in, and even the twins—miracle of miracles—don’t make a sound.

Mya just stares at me.

Eyes glassy. Lips trembling. One hand over her heart like she’s holding it in place because it might shatter from the inside out. And I think—I think—she’s about to cry. Or laugh. Or both. Which is a very Mya thing to do.

I feel like I’m holding the world in one hand and the ring in the other, just waiting for her to say something before my heart decides it’s done pretending I’m cool and collected.

She drops to her knees in front of me. Doesn’t care that her jeans are catching on the unfinished floor or that her mascara is already halfway down her cheek. She just crashes into me like I’m the only thing holding her up. Arms wrapped tight around my neck, forehead pressed to mine, and I can feel her shaking.

“I will only ever stop loving you,” she whispers, her voice a breath against my mouth, “when the sky falls.”

My heart slams into my ribs.

She leans back just enough to meet my eyes, her own swimming. “And even then, I’ll still love you in the dark.”

I don’t realize I’m crying until she lifts a hand to my cheek and catches the tear with her thumb.