“Is that all?” I ask.
“For now,” my father says. His gaze drops to our joined hands, his mouth tightening. “Do we have an understanding?”
I look at Vincent, searching his face for any sign of what he wants me to do. His eyes meet mine, steady and certain despite everything that’s happened.
“We have an understanding,” I tell my father, turning back to him. “Now get out of my home.”
For a moment, I think he might explode at the dismissal. But instead, a flicker of something almost like respect crosses his face before his expression hardens again.
“We’ll speak again soon,” he says, adjusting his suit jacketas he stands. “About the business.”
I don’t respond, just watch as he walks to the door. He pauses with his hand on the knob, not turning back.
“Your mother would have handled this better than I did,” he says quietly. “She always understood you in ways I never could.”
Before I can process this unexpected admission, he’s gone, the door closing with a soft click behind him.
Vincent and I stand frozen for several seconds, the echo of my father’s presence still heavy in the air. When I finally turn to Vincent, his eyes are wide, his face pale.
“Did you just… did you just threaten to kill your father? For me?”
I reach up to touch his face, my fingers tracing the curve of his jaw. “I meant every word.”
Vincent’s eyes glimmer with unshed tears, the amber darkening to honey as he stares at me. His lips part, but for a moment no sound comes out, just a shaky breath.
“Even the part about… loving me?” he finally whispers, his voice catching.
The vulnerability in his question tugs at my chest. After everything—the threats, the confrontation, standing up to my father—this is what makes Vincent’s voice tremble. This is what he needs reassurance about.
I cup his face in my hands, feeling the slight stubble against my palms. Our foreheads nearly touch as I draw him closer.
“Especially that part. I think I’ve loved you since before I even understood what it meant.”
A single tear escapes, sliding down his cheek to meet my thumb. I brush it away gently.
“I tried not to,” I continue, needing him to understand thedepth of what I feel. “I tried so hard not to love you. But it was like trying not to breathe.”
Vincent’s hands come up to grip my wrists, not pulling me away but anchoring himself to me. His eyes search mine, looking for any hint of doubt or deception. He won’t find any.
“Alex,” he breathes, and then his mouth is on mine.
The kiss is different from all the ones we’ve shared before—not desperate or hungry or demanding, but deep and sure, like coming home after a long journey. I taste the salt of his tears, feel the slight tremble in his lips as they move against mine. My hands slide from his face to the back of his neck, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between us.
When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, Vincent rests his forehead against mine. His eyes are still wet, but he’s smiling now—a smile that reaches all the way to those amber depths.
“I love you too,” he says, the words falling between us like a promise. “I think I always have. Even when I was running from you, I was running toward you at the same time.”
Something shifts inside me at his words—the final piece of a puzzle clicking into place. For the first time in my life, I feel complete. Whole. Like everything before this moment was just the universe arranging things exactly right so that Vincent and I could end up here, together.
“No more running,” I murmur against his lips.
“No more running,” he agrees, sealing the promise with another kiss.
20
Vincent
Six months later
