It started with a drawer.
A cluttered, overstuffed drawer in Leon's study.
Aria was cleaning — not because she had to, but because she wanted to. This was her home now, too, and the disarray of tangled charging cables and unopened mail grated against her sense of order.
Leon was out on a brief trip to meet a supplier. She had the place to herself.
Jazz hummed from the speakers.
The windows were open.
And everything felt... easy.
Until she found it.
Tucked beneath a leather notebook and an envelope labeled "CONFIDENTIAL," she found a small, square velvet box.
Black.
Unmarked.
Unmistakable.
She froze.
Her fingers hovered above it for a breath, then another, before she finally lifted it out and opened it.
A ring.
Simple. Timeless.
A platinum band with a solitaire diamond — not ostentatious, but undeniably elegant. The kind of ring you didn't buy on impulse.
The kind you thought about.
Planned for.
Imagined on someone's hand.
Aria sat on the edge of the desk.
The box in her palm.
Staring at it like it might whisper answers if she stayed still enough.
He hadn't asked.
Hadn't said anything.
She didn't even know how long he'd had it.
But the sight of it twisted something sharp and uncertain in her chest.
She wasn't scared of commitment.
She was scared of becoming a symbol.
Of being loved because it was time. Or expected. Or strategic.
She wanted to be chosen, yes — but not for appearances.
Not because it was the next "power move" for a man like Leon Castellan.
When he came home that evening, Aria didn't mention it.
She kissed him hello.
She laughed at his terrible impression of the supplier's accent.
She made dinner while he opened a bottle of wine.
But the box stayed in her mind like a note she couldn't unread.
Later, as they lay in bed, Leon traced patterns along her spine.
"You're quiet tonight," he murmured.
Aria rested her chin on his chest. "Just tired."
He studied her for a long moment.
Then: "You cleaned the study?"
"A little."
"Did you open the drawer?"
She paused.
Then nodded.
Leon didn't tense.
Didn't flinch.
Just said, "I forgot it was in there."
Aria waited.
But nothing else came.
No proposal.
No explanation.
Just those six words.
I forgot it was in there.
She pushed herself up, sitting against the headboard.
"I don't need it," she said, voice quiet.
"I know."
"I didn't come here for that."
"I know."
"Then why—?"
Leon sat up beside her.
Ran a hand through his hair.
Exhaled.
"Because I bought it the day I realized I couldn't imagine my life without you."
Aria's breath caught.
He wasn't performing now.
There was no speech.
No orchestration.
Just truth.
Unpolished.
Unpracticed.
"I wanted to ask you," he said. "But then I thought — what if it's too soon? What if I'm rushing us because I'm scared I'll lose you again? What if I'm doing this like another business acquisition, and not… not what it's supposed to be?"
She looked at him, heart aching.
"Leon…"
"I don't want you to say yes because you feel like you have to. Or because the world expects us to be some picture-perfect couple. I want you to say yes because when you look at me, you know."
"I do know," she whispered.
He met her eyes.
She reached for his hand.
Held it.
Then said, very softly:
"But I'm not ready for a ring."
Leon didn't move.
Didn't pull away.
Didn't push.
Just nodded.
"Then I'll wait."
Aria smiled.
Leaning her forehead against his.
"I already said yes to you. In a hundred ways."
He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his chest.
"That's the only answer I need tonight."
They slept that night without tension.
No pressure.
No expectations.
Just hearts quietly finding their rhythm again.
And on the windowsill, the ring stayed in its box, untouched.
Waiting.
Not as a question.
But as a promise.