Dean folded his arms. "Just show me the rings."
Benjamin let out a soft, scandalized sound. "No."
Dean blinked. "No?"
"No," Benjamin repeated, with the calm authority of a man who had once likely argued down bishops, counts, and at least one deeply emotional duchess over stone settings. "That is not how this works. I am not a market stall. I am not dumping trays in front of you and letting sentiment make random purchases."
Sylvia nodded solemnly. "He has a point."
Dean looked at her. "You're enjoying this too much."
"I'm enjoying all of this exactly the right amount."
Benjamin ignored both of them and opened a second inner panel of the case. More trays slid into view, narrower this time, arranged not by metal or stone but by profile, weight, line, and structure.
"Now," he said, all business. "We begin properly. Not with rings. With hands."
Dean stared.
Benjamin stared back.
Boreas yawned.
Sylvia folded her hands in her lap like a woman settling in for theater.
