“Then make one,” she says.
I don’t hesitate.
“I’m choosing you,” I say.
The words land clean.
No edge.
No deflection.
Just truth.
Her expression mutates, not surprise, not disbelief, something deeper than that, something that settles instead of spikes.
“Yeah?” she asks quietly.
“Yeah,” I reply.
She studies me for a second, then nods once.
“Good,” she says. “Because I’m choosing you too.”
Something in my chest tightens, then steadies.
“Alright,” I murmur.
I reach for her then, not tentative, not uncertain, my hand settling at her side, careful of the injury but not avoiding the contact.
“You realize what that means,” I say.
“Yeah,” she replies. “No sides. No lines. No going back to what we were.”
“Yeah,” I nod. “Exactly that.”
She edges closer, her hand coming up to rest against my chest, her fingers curling slightly into the fabric like she’s grounding herself there.
“Good,” she says again.
I exhale slowly, something heavier than relief settling into place.
“Then I’m not letting you go,” I say.
She arches a brow slightly.
“That a threat?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I reply. “A friendly one.”
She huffs a quiet laugh.
“You’re terrible at those,” she says.
“Yeah,” I admit. “But you get the point.”
“I do,” she says.
The moment stretches, not fragile, not fleeting, something solid enough to hold.
