Chapter 27 Grief of My Mothers Ring
The bed felt like it was swallowing the room whole as we laid next to each other. Too big for the space, too small for comfort. It sat there like a dare next to Fisk.
Rain tapped at the warped window in a steady rhythm, soft but relentless, like fingers drumming impatience. It filled the silence too easily. Made it harder to ignore how little space there was between us.
I folded my arms tight across my chest, holding myself together with bone and stubbornness. If I let go, I wasn’t sure what would spill out.
Fisk moved first. He always did.
He crossed to the corner and dropped into a splintered chair that looked one bad breath away from collapsing. It creaked under him, long and low, but held.
Barely.
I was grateful for the space I was given. My mind was spiraling about my grief of giving up my mom's ring to survive. I picked at the edge of my sleeve, worrying about the loose thread until it snapped. My eyes stayed on the window, on the thin trails of water racing each other down the glass. Anywhere but him.
“You don’t have to—” Fisk started.
I stiffened.
He exhaled, shifting. “I mean… if it’s too much—”
“I’ve slept in worse,” I cut in, too quick. The words came out sharper than I meant. “I just…” I didn’t finish. Didn’t know how.
Because it wasn’t the bed.
It was him.
Fisk tipped his head back against the wall, eyes closing like he was giving me the room to breathe. “I can take the floor.”
That pulled a breath out of me that almost turned into a laugh. Almost. “You’d wake up broken.”
A corner of his mouth twitched. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
My gaze flicked to him before I could stop it. His shirt clung damp to his shoulders, sleeves pushed up, skin marked and bruised in places I hadn’t noticed before. Or maybe I had and just hadn’t let myself linger.
His eyes opened. Found mine.
“Are you really going to let that bastard keep your ring?” The words hit clean and hard. I sat before I realized I’d moved. The mattress didn’t give much under me. Hard. Unforgiving. Safe, in a strange way.
I focused on my hands, on the half-moon marks pressed into my palms, digging my nails in just enough to feel something solid.
“I had nothing else to give,” I said. It tasted wrong.
Fisk didn’t argue. Didn’t push. “It’s not just a ring,” he said instead. He must have picked up that there was more to it. He looked at me with eyes that urged me to share.
It wasn’t a question.
My throat tightened. “I know. It’s my mother’s.”
The words slipped out quieter this time, like they were trying not to be heard. I chuckled a bitter laugh as a memory replayed. I explained.
“My father gave it to her before he left the first time. He would kiss the ring like it was a promise to come back every time.” I let out a breath that didn’t quite steady me. I relived the memories of all the times he left and came back. They were all the same, but the last time.
“He didn’t come back the last time. But she kept wearing it anyway. Like if she believed hard enough, it might make it true. Like the ring would bring him back”
I swallowed.
“She gave it to me before she—” I stopped, jaw tightening. Started again. “Told me to keep it. So I won't forget.”
The room felt smaller after that. Like the walls leaned in to listen.
I stared down at my hands, blinking hard. “I said I’d never give it up. Not for anything.” My fingers curled into fists. “Not even if it meant living.” Tears rolled down my face. “She begged me to use it if it meant I would live”
The admission sat between us, heavy and ugly.
Fisk moved then.
He crossed the space and lowered himself in front of me, one knee hitting the warped floor with a dull knock. His hand came down over mine, warm and solid, covering the tension I couldn’t hide.
I froze.
“I’ve known men who’d kill for less than what that ring meant to you,” he said quietly. “You didn’t give it up cheaply.”
My breath hitched, sharp and uneven. “Don’t dress it up like that. It was desperate.”
His thumb shifted against my knuckles, rough skin dragging slow. Not enough to pull away from. Not enough to ignore.
“It was survival,” he said. “There’s a difference.”
I let my fingers loosen under his hand, slow and uncertain, like I didn’t trust them to behave if I let them free all at once.
“You said you’d get it back.”
His mouth curved, just a little. Not cocky. Not teasing. Certain.
“You think I won’t?”
That was the problem.
I did think he would.
I lifted my head, meeting his eyes. The green in them looked darker in the low light, steadier than anything else in the room. He wasn’t trying to win me over. Wasn’t asking for anything in return.
Just… offering.
Something in my chest eased. Just a fraction.
Enough to breathe.
Fisk pushed to his feet, but he didn’t go far. He sat beside me on the bed, and the frame dipped under his weight, dragging me a few inches closer before I could stop it.
I felt it.
That shift.
That closeness.
Every inch of space between us suddenly mattered too much.
He leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, hands hanging loose. Close enough that if I moved my fingers, I could touch them.
“We’ll get it back,” he said. “Then we figure out what comes next.”
I shook my head, a quiet, stubborn thing. “There is no next.”
His hand found my shoulder again.
Gentler this time.
Like he already knew I wouldn’t pull away.
“You don’t know that,” he said.
I should’ve shrugged him off. Made a joke. Put space back between us where it belonged. Instead, I leaned in. Just a little.
Just enough for my shoulder to press into his arm, for his warmth to seep through the damp chill still clinging to me.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t make a sound.
But I felt the shift in him anyway—subtle, controlled, like he was holding still on purpose.
Like if he moved too fast, I might bolt.
The rain filled the silence again, softer now. Or maybe I just wasn’t listening as hard.
I could feel his breathing. Slow. Steady.
Too close.
Not close enough.
My fingers twitched in my lap, reaching for a chain that wasn’t there.
This time, I stopped them.
Let my hand rest instead.
Right where it was.
Close enough to him that I could feel the heat of it.