But I don't find doubt.
I find certainty.
Absolute, unwavering, terrifying certainty.
His green-gold eyes are locked on mine, pupils blown wide with arousal and something deeper—something that looks like the loneliness I've been carrying for ten years, reflected back at me in another person's face.
He knows exactly what he's asking.
Knows exactly who I am.
And he wants me anyway.
Not despite the brokenness.
Because of it.
He's not trying to fix me.
Not trying to save, tame, or turn me into some domesticated version of myself that fits neatly into pack dynamics and social expectations.
He's trying to join me.
In the chaos, in the violence, in the beautiful disaster of existing outside every boundary society has drawn.
I've never seen a man look at me like that.
Without an ounce of regret.
Without the subtle calculation in his eyes that says he's already planning his exit strategy.
Without the fear that eventually surfaces in every Alpha who gets too close and realizes that loving me is a death sentence to their sanity.
He's not afraid.
He should be.
But he's not.
And maybe that's what pushes me over the edge.
Maybe it's the certainty in his eyes, or the blood on his lip, or the way his hands are still gripping my hips like I'm something precious instead of something dangerous.
Or it's the five years of letters—of connection built through words and hope and the desperate need to believe I wasn't completely alone in this nightmare.
Maybe it's just that I'm tired.
So fucking tired of surviving alone.
Tired of fighting and killing and bleeding just to earn the right to exist in spaces that don't want me.
So tired of pretending I don't want soft things—love, partnership, someone who chooses me first instead of tolerating me as a last resort.
I lean in.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
