Selene holds my gaze.
There is no tribunal bench here. No public commentary feed. No cameras. No institution translating the shape of us into policy risk or symbolic value.
Just light. Wood. Dust. Breath.
She says, very quietly, “You could not possibly be more intense about a house.”
“I am not speaking only about the house.”
“I know.”
I wait.
She looks down at the papers in her lap, then out toward the small patch of ground behind the house where wet leaves shine under the sun, then back at me again.
When she answers, her voice is steadier than mine feels.
“Good,” she says. “Because I’m not staying out of convenience either.”
Something in me loosens so fast it almost hurts.
I let out a breath I had not meant to hold.
Selene’s mouth curves at one corner. “Also, for the record, if you’d hidden a residency dependency clause in there, I would have buried you under your own child-safety hardware.”
“That seems extreme.”
“That seems fair.”
“It would have complicated the floor plan.”
Now she laughs—brief, bright, exhausted, real.
I lean in and rest my forehead lightly against hers for one second, just enough to feel the warmth of her there, the reality of her answer, the stupid beautiful ordinariness of making a future out loud without needing a government to certify the feeling.
When I draw back, she taps the trust account packet with one finger.
“You really put both our names on everything.”
“Yes.”
“You know this is terrifyingly intimate.”
“I installed cabinet latches.”
“That is not a rebuttal.”
“It is context.”
She shakes her head once in disbelief, smiling now despite herself. “You are ridiculous.”
“Yes.”
“And apparently trustworthy, which is deeply inconvenient for my preferred worldview.”
“That sounds difficult.”
“It is.”
