Isadora was lying across Kane's lap, one ankle hooked over the arm of the sofa, the other foot tucked beneath her. The apartment hummed with the low city noise beyond the windows; inside, the light was soft and the playlist on low, a string of songs that had become theirs. He traced idle patterns along her forearm, and she closed her eyes, content.
"Let's get custom rings," she said suddenly.
Kane looked up, surprised by the shift from quiet to decision. "Custom?"
"Yes." She turned her head to meet him. "Something that feels like us. Not the usual band with a stone. I want texture, a line that matches the curve of my hand. Maybe a small engraving only we understand."
He smiled, the kind that reached his eyes. "I like that. We'll design them together."
