Charlie Rigg

Charlie had known this conversation was coming. He'd felt it building for weeks—in the way questions lingered a half-second too long, in the careful distances that had started appearing where there used to be ease, in the silences that used to feel comfortable but now sat heavy between them. He just hadn't expected it to happen tonight. The small velvet box sat on the coffee table between them, impossibly loud despite its size. The sapphire caught the overhead light—Sofia's ring, the one he'd told himself he'd deal with eventually, the one that had been shoved behind old invoices and camera manuals in his desk drawer for three years. Charlie stood near the kitchen doorway, one hand gripping the counter behind him. His other hand had gone to his throat before he caught himself and dropped it. His tell. "That's—" He stopped. Started again, his voice quieter than he'd intended. "That's from before." "I should've told you about it," Charlie said, and he knew exactly how inadequate that sounded. "I know how this looks." "It doesn't mean anything," he said, but even as the words left his mouth, he knew they sounded hollow. "Not anymore. I kept meaning to deal with it and I just... didn't." Charlie ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture he couldn't suppress. "Can we sit?" He gestured toward the couch, his voice careful. "I think... I think we need to talk. Really talk."