"Dec," I interrupted gently, stepping closer. "I'm fine."
Her hands were trembling. I took them before she could pull away. "Hey," I said softly, tilting my head until she met my gaze. "Look at me. I'm right here."
Her lip quivered. "I am sorry, I know I am a bit too much," she whispered. I didn't let her finish. I just pulled her into my arms and held her there. For a moment, she resisted, like she was afraid I might vanish, but then she melted against me, arms sliding around my waist, face buried in my chest.
"I'm here," I murmured. "You can stop worrying now, love."
"Never," she whispered back, voice muffled. "You don't get to almost die and then tell me to stop worrying."
I smiled faintly and kissed the top of her head. "Then worry with me in your arms."
When she finally looked up, her eyes were wet but fierce. "You shouldn't have done that for me."
"I'd do it again," I said without hesitation. "A thousand times."
Her fingers brushed my jaw, tentative, reverent. And then, finally, she kissed me. Soft. Careful. Like I might break. But I didn't. I kissed her back, slow and sure, every second of fear between us dissolving into something fragile and whole.
Afterward, she leaned her forehead against mine and whispered, "I don't want to be scared anymore."
"Then let's stop being scared together," I said. "Starting tomorrow."
She frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"
"I'm declaring two weeks of dates," I told her. "One every night.."
Her brows lifted. "You're supposed to be taking it easy."
"I will. You'll see. They'll all be small surprises."
I meant it. The next night, I started simple. I strung up a few old fairy lights in the backyard, set two mismatched chairs under the oak tree, and lit every candle I could find. December came out barefoot, wearing one of my old shirts that hung off her shoulder, and just stopped in the doorway. The candles flickered across her face, catching the shine in her hair.
"You did this?" she whispered.
"Yeah," I said. "Wanted to have dinner under the stars."
She laughed softly, that low, musical sound I'd missed more than sleep. "This is not simple."
"I had help," I said.
We ate pizza off paper plates, our knees touching beneath the table. We talked about nothing and everything — the past, the weather, the ridiculousness of fate. At one point, she leaned forward, laughing, and brushed a crumb from my lip. Her fingers lingered there, just long enough for my pulse to trip overitself. The touch was featherlight, but it anchored me. For a moment, the world narrowed to the space between us.
The next evening, I packed a blanket, and she drove us to the little park outside town. The night was soft, navy and gold, the sky slowly blooming with stars.
We lay side by side, close enough to share breath. The constellations shimmered above us, patient and infinite.
"Remember when you told me stars were just the universe showing off?" she murmured, eyes still on the sky.
"Still true," I said, turning toward her. "But tonight, it's got competition."
She rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her. "You're laying it on thick, Ry."
"Not thick enough," I said quietly. "You don't get it, Dec. You walk into a room and everything in me settles. You laugh, and it's like the rest of the world falls away. I don't care about anything except making you feel safe, and seen, and so loved you never have to question it again."
Her eyes shimmered, catching the starlight. "You already do," she whispered.
We kissed beneath that endless sky and it felt like a vow spoken in the language of breath and heartbeat.
Another evening, sprawled on the living room floor with a messy deck of cards, the game quickly dissolved into playful chaos. She cheated with a cheeky grin, eyes filled with mischief, and I called her out with mock indignation. Without warning, she lunged atme, the weight of her body pressing me down as she pinned me beneath her.
