Chapter Text
The lid of the navy velvet box was still open, the light from the small, dusty bedroom bulb catching the diamond's familiar, antique shine.
It didn't just glitter; it radiated a heavy, inherited light, demanding recognition.
The box was a connection to a different era, a different kind of love story—Susannah and Adam’s, which had been complicated, long-running, and ultimately fractured by distance and heartbreak, a history I did not want to repeat.
The velvet itself was worn soft, slightly flattened on the corners from decades spent waiting for the right moment, a silent testament to decades of family history.
The small, square shape felt like a profound secret in my hands, a dense, weighty object that contained far more than just carbon, a secret too big and too consequential for a mundane Friday afternoon in our apartment.
I didn't let myself look at it for another second.
The reality of the cold, heavy metal, the history etched into the mounting, and the monumental weight of the family legacy it represented—it was too much, too fast.
This wasn't just a ring; it was the ring. It was the endpoint of a winding, agonizing road.
Logically, it should have felt terrifyingly fast, too much, too soon.
But the truth was, all I felt was a tidal wave of dizzying certainty.
My mind conjured an instant, impossible montage that played at warp speed: a beach proposal, white dress, wedding bells, a future suddenly accelerated past my careful, established timeline.
The fear wasn't that he wouldn't ask, or even that the moment was premature; it was that this enormous, beautiful leap, while long-awaited, was completely incompatible with the exhausting, delicate stability we had just achieved.
I slammed the lid shut with a soft, final thud that nevertheless sounded deafening in the silence of the room, and I dropped the box back into the deep drawer like it was a live grenade.
I quickly pushed Conrad’s hoodies and running shorts back over the top, piling a fortress of fabric and forgotten socks, making sure the velvet secret was completely buried and impossible to see.
I didn't want to know. I couldn't afford to overthink it right now, not with a massive, emotional family trip looming.
The hope was the most dangerous part—the terrifying realization that I was ready, even if the timing was all wrong.
I scrambled up from the floor, my legs shaky and my breath catching in my chest.
I felt disoriented.
My heart was still ricocheting against my ribs, a trapped, frantic pulse that felt audible above the soft drumming of the persistent rain against the windowpane.
I ran a hand through my hair, aggressively smoothing it down, checking that I looked utterly normal, before practically tiptoeing out of the bedroom and into the living room, where the sound of Conrad’s low, serious voice on the phone was still anchoring the universe outside my crisis.
He was still deep in his coordination call.
The remnants of his medical school life—a thick, dog-eared textbook open next to his lukewarm mug of black coffee, a laminated patient report detailing a complex case—were spread across the counter like artifacts from another planet. He was utterly consumed by the terrifying gravity of his world: patient care, complex scheduling, and the relentless demands of saving lives.
He glanced up, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a small, tired smile of acknowledgment, completely oblivious to the silent, three-minute emotional crisis I'd just endured four feet away in our bedroom.
The weight of the secret felt immediately suffocating.
I couldn't breathe the same air as him; I couldn't risk him reading the electric panic radiating off my skin like a heat shimmer.
I needed to reset, to find a voice that wasn't spinning out of control. My own phone felt suddenly hot in my hand.
I needed Taylor. Now.
I retreated to the balcony, pulling the glass door shut behind me with a gentle click.
The cold, damp San Francisco air, mixed with a thin layer of fog, immediately hit my face, shocking some of the frantic adrenaline out of my system. It smelled like wet concrete and sea air, a sharp contrast to the interior scent of pine and old coffee.
I fumbled to hit the FaceTime button, barely registering the blurred lights of the neighbors through the persistent drizzle.
Taylor answered immediately.
She was wearing a thick, oversized 'Stanford' sweatshirt that Steven must have stolen for her, her hair was wrapped in a messy topknot, and her face was bare, all signs of a quiet Friday night in. She was sitting curled up on her sofa with a bottle of wine nearby, looking utterly relaxed.
"Hey! We just finished packing. Steven is downstairs getting dinner," she said, her voice bright. "Wait, what's wrong? You look like you just saw a ghost and then ran five miles. Did you two get into an argument about the utility bill? Because I told you to just let him handle it."
I gripped the phone, trying desperately to slow my rapid, shallow breathing enough to make my voice sound normal and casual.
"I... I was looking for Conrad’s sweater. We're packing for Cousins, you know, our little buffer trip before Christmas." I watched my own reflection in the glass of the balcony door—eyes too wide, face pale. I knew I wasn't fooling anyone.
"Right. You lucky bastards," she teased, but the easy tone vanished when she saw the raw look on my face. She immediately put her wine glass down.
"Belly, what did you find?"
My voice was a choked whisper, barely louder than the patter of the rain outside.
"It's the ring, Tay. Susannah's. I found it in the back of his dresser drawer. I saw it."
Taylor's eyes went wide.
Her mouth opened, then closed. She started to speak, stopped, and bit her lip, looking vaguely uncomfortable, which immediately confirmed my darkest suspicion.
Her reaction only fueled my initial panic, and I felt my blood pressure rise with a furious surge of heat.
"You look weird, too," I accused, my voice thin and tight with sudden betrayal. "Did you know about this? Did Conrad tell you something? Did he tell Steven?"
The idea that everyone else knew I was about to walk into my own proposal, that I was the last person to know, made my stomach twist painfully.
"Whoa, okay, deep breaths. Listen," she said, raising a hand to signal a time-out, her voice firm. "You have to slow down. I know about the ring, but it's not what you think. Belly, you know Conrad inherited the ring from Susannah after she passed, right? Adam gave it to him years ago, like, when he was just starting med school. It's been an heirloom in his possession for ages."
The words hit me with the force of a cold shower, washing away the frantic, immediate future I had just invented.
He's had it for years.
It had been tucked away, a relic of his past, not a symbol of my imminent future.
The blood rushed from my head, and I felt suddenly weak, having to lean against the railing for physical support.
I let out a shaky, pathetic little laugh that was part relief, part self-mockery. The adrenaline drained out of me completely, leaving me feeling hollow and foolish.
"Right. God, of course. I'm such an idiot. I'm looking in the deep dark of his dresser drawer two days before Christmas. He just keeps his whole life in that drawer. I shouldn't have..."
"No, no, hey," Taylor interrupted sharply, her eyes full of sympathy. "Stop talking. That is not the takeaway here. You got your hopes up because you want it, and that’s okay. That is a completely normal, healthy reaction to seeing that box. But, Belly, seriously. Conrad Fisher will not propose by letting you find the ring tucked under his socks in a messy drawer. That is a catastrophic failure of planning, and that is not his brand," she said, managing to make me laugh a little.
"He’s the guy who organizes his stress, he’s a planner. He’s gonna get Laurel's blessing, he’s gonna make sure you’re ready for this commitment, he's gonna do it right. He wouldn't risk messing up something that important."
She paused, then added gently, "He knows how much that ring means, not just to the family, but to you. He knows how much you mean. He'd want the moment to be worthy of everything you two fought to get back. Trust him to be thorough. When he asks you, you will know exactly why and when."
Tears pricked at my eyes, not of sadness, but of shame and gratitude for her clarity and her unwavering faith in him.
"I am ready," I whispered, the confession tasting scary and real. "I am, Taylor. And that's the embarrassing part. It’s only been two years since I broke things off with Jere. I still carry the guilt of the timeline, like I didn't fully honor the past before leaping toward this future." I trailed off, unable to articulate the feeling of rushing past a significant, painful chapter of my life.
Taylor's expression softened, but her voice was firm with conviction.
"Stop that. You are where you are supposed to be. Your journey is yours, Belly. It's okay that you're ready, because it's right. I told you this two years ago at your bridal shower, and I’ll tell you again. When you know, you know."
The memory hit me, a powerful, emotional flash—me sitting in a silly ribbon bonnet, Taylor giving me advice about Jeremiah and forever.
I hadn't believed her then. I remember nodding, trying to smile, but knowing subconsciously that I was still hopelessly in love with Conrad and that Jere wasn't my future.
The phrase had felt like a hollow justification for my own uncertainty, a mantra I tried to force into existence.
But now, hearing the words, they didn’t feel like a lie or a justification. They felt like the absolute, non-negotiable truth—a silent, deep certainty that had settled in my bones the moment I saw Conrad in Paris for the first time.
The only timing that mattered was the one in my heart.
"That's the difference, B," Taylor said, as if reading my mind across the continent. "The first time, you were trying to convince yourself you knew. This time, you just do. The fact that you got that level of panic just from seeing the box? That tells you everything you need to know. This is right, Belly," she said, firm and certain.
"This time is right. You and Conrad are the messy, dramatic, frustrating, beautiful exception. You’re soulmates who, through everything, found your way back to one another. It's going to pan out exactly the way it's meant to. Stop trying to find the flaws in your happy ending."
I wiped my eyes and managed a genuine smile, feeling the last pit of panic dissolve.
"Thanks, Tay. I really, really needed that. You're the best."
"Now go pack and stop rummaging in your man’s socks," she ordered, giving me one last knowing look before we hung up.
I went back inside, the apartment no longer feeling like a pressure cooker, but just our home.
The chaos of half-packed suitcases and discarded clothes felt normal again, a sign of our shared, ordinary life.
I calmly finished folding my sweaters and T-shirts for the flight tomorrow, feeling calm and focused.
Conrad finally hung up, muttering a frustrated curse about scheduling, before rubbing his eyes and collapsing onto the bed with a heavy thud, the entire weight of his profession seeming to fall off him at once.
He was dead tired.
He pulled me down next to him without a word, burying his face into my hair, his arm wrapping tightly around my waist, pulling me close until the hard angle of his hip pressed into mine.
The familiar scent of his skin and the lingering black coffee was a powerful, comforting anchor, a physical assurance of his reality.
I snuggled into his side, the moment quiet, safe, and profoundly warm.
I didn’t worry about the velvet box hidden under the shorts in the dresser.
I wasn't anxious about a proposal in Cousins.
I wasn't embarrassed by my readiness anymore.
I just knew he was here, and I was here, and that quiet, non-negotiable certainty felt like the most profound kind of forever there was.
I drifted off to sleep, feeling utterly and completely loved, finally ready for whatever came next.