Beneath Her Ice

The velvet box sat quietly in the drawer beside Will's bed.

He hadn't opened it in days.

Hadn't needed to.

Because some things are too big for words, too powerful to rush.

And yet, every time Eliza curled into his side at night, murmured sleepy questions into his skin, or left her heels at the door without a second thought — he came closer.

Closer to asking.

Closer to everything.

It was Sunday morning.

Sunlight spilled lazily through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting golden stripes across Eliza's bare legs as she padded into the kitchen in one of Will's button-downs.

Coffee brewed. Jazz played low.

She looked like sin in a honeymoon suite.

Will was already there — messy curls, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, flipping pancakes like a domestic god.

She paused, leaned against the counter, and smiled softly. "What did I do to deserve this?"

He glanced over. "You didn't run."

She crossed the space between them slowly and slid her arms around his waist. "So that's the new bar? Stay the night, earn carbs?"

His hands found her hips. "You stayed more than the night. You stayed in it. With me."

The griddle hissed behind them, forgotten.

She kissed his jaw, feather-light. "I didn't plan to."

"I know," he said quietly. "Neither did I."

They stood there for a long beat — no tension, just truth between them.

And in that silence, Will knew it was time.

But not yet for the question.

For the trust.

That evening, after dinner and wine and a lazy hour curled on the couch watching a documentary they both pretended to care about, Will disappeared into the bedroom while Eliza washed up.

When she stepped into the room — towel slung around her neck, cheeks flushed, hair damp — she saw it.

A box.

Small. Velvet. Open.

Not in his hand.

Just… placed.

Not offered.

Not demanded.

Not yet.

Just there.

Between them.

Eliza stopped.

Her breath caught.

Will sat on the bed, back against the headboard, reading something on his phone like he hadn't just cracked her entire world open with one quiet gesture.

She stepped closer.

Inside the box, nestled on silk, was a ring unlike any she'd imagined.

No giant stone. No flashy opulence.

Just a simple band of white gold, clean lines, with a thin line of black sapphire running through its center like ink.

Elegant. Uncompromising. Hers.

"Is this a question?" she asked softly.

He looked up. Met her eyes.

"No," he said. "It's a truth."

Her breath trembled.

"I love you," he said, steady now. "And one day, I'm going to ask. But not because we have to. Not because it's next on some timeline. I'll ask when you're ready to say yes with your whole heart."

She sat beside him. Silent.

Then she reached out, touched the box. Touched him.

"Leave it there," she whispered.

He nodded.

She didn't say anything else.

She didn't need to.

Because that night, when she climbed into his lap and took him with slow, aching intention — when she whispered his name like a vow against his mouth — it was more of an answer than any word could ever be.

And he heard her. All of her.

Even the parts she hadn't said yet.