Page 188 of Mending Hearts
My breath catches.
“They were starting to wear down,” he continues. “And I don’t want something that fragile holding something this important.”
The metaphor isn’t subtle. It doesn’t need to be.
I let out a shaky breath. “You sentimental bastard.”
“Shut up.”
He steps closer, takes my left hand in his, and slides the new one into place.
It fits perfectly.
The weight is different. Heavier. Solid. The ridges of the string are still there beneath the smooth casing. I can feel them when I turn my hand, like history preserved under glass.
“I don’t want another ceremony,” he says quietly. “I don’t want a spectacle.”
“Good,” I murmur, because neither do I.
“I just want to choose you again,” he continues. “Without panic. Without running. Without pretending this has to survive in secret.”
The loft is quiet around us. The city hums faintly outside the windows. No cameras. No noise. Just the two of us standing in the soft aftermath of the biggest night of his career.
Ollie holds my gaze. “I love you,” he says, steady and sure.
I take his hand, pick up the reinforced band, and ease it onto his finger. The platinum catches the light, subtle but unmistakable. The guitar string beneath it is still visible—still ours—but now it looks like it was always meant to endure.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I tell him.
“I know,” he says.
And that’s the difference.
Twelve years ago, we clung to each other like we were outrunning something.
Eight years ago, we let fear make decisions for us.
Now we stand here, in a quiet loft after the last regular-season home game of his career, and there’s no urgency in the air. No sense that time is about to rip something away.
Just certainty.
He leans forward until our foreheads touch, his breath warm against my mouth.
“These will last,” he says softly.
“So will we.”
Later, we settle onto the couch with the muted game replay flickering across the television. His legs stretch across my lap,and I trace the new band with my thumb, feeling the ridges of the string beneath the metal.
It’s still the same ring. Just stronger.
Outside, the city keeps moving. The season will roll into playoffs. The world will keep asking questions. Life will keep unfolding in ways we can’t predict.
But the frantic edge is gone.
We’re not improvising anymore. We’re building.
I look down at our hands—at the strings that once felt temporary, now encased in something meant to endure—and I realize this is what I’ve wanted all along.
