Morning light stripes Dallas Fontaine’s apartment in tired gold. He has already cut the Pier Nine line, and the city is still standing. On the nightstand, his rotary phone sits silent for one more breath.

Dallas slips the small velvet box from his pocket and opens it near the bed. The ring catches the light, plain and honest, not flashy enough for a crook and not humble enough for a priest.

Elena wakes fully, propped on one elbow, dark hair loose across the pillow. Her expression goes still first, then softens into something wary and real, like she is checking whether the room itself can be trusted.

She looks at the ring, then at Dallas, and the corner of her mouth trembles before it steadies. Her hand reaches for his, careful at first, then sure.

The rotary phone suddenly starts ringing, harsh and insistent against the quiet room. Elena glances toward it, then back to Dallas, their hands still joined on the blanket.

Dallas keeps Elena’s hand in his as he reaches over the nightstand. The phone’s ring cuts hard through the room, and he lifts the receiver before it can wake the whole apartment.

The cord stretches tight between his fingers and the cradle, a small domestic thing under strain. Elena stays close, watching his face instead of the phone.

The line is hot.

Elena’s grip firms around Dallas’s hand. Her hope does not vanish, but it tightens into caution.