Her lips press together, like she’s holding in a smile.
“And let’s say,” I continue, my voice steady even though my heart is pounding, “in eight years, we’ve both done everything we wanted to do. Lived our lives. Dated people. Maybe almost settled down once or twice.”
Her gaze sharpens like she doesn’t like the thought of that. “Saint …”
“Hear me out.”
She sighs, but doesn’t interrupt, nor does she let go of my shirt.
“When we hit thirty, if neither of us has found something real, something that sticks …” I say, holding her stare.
She takes in a deep breath.
“Then we stop pretending. We stop running. We choose each other.”
Her lips part, but she doesn’t say anything.
After a minute, she finally says, “You’re serious?”
“I am.”
“That’s”—she laughs—“insane.”
“Is it?”
“Um, yes,” she says quickly. “We have no idea who or where we’ll be in eight years.”
“Right.”
Her eyes narrow. “So, how does this work then?”
I shrug. “We make a commitment to each other to make it work. Because no matter who we become or where we are … I don’t think this”—I brush my nose against hers—“goes away.”
She closes her eyes. “You can’t know that,” she says, softer now.
“I do.”
“How, Saint? How do you know?”
“I know because this hasn’t gone away for three years.”
She swallows hard. “I just…this is ridiculous.”
“Probably.” I huff a laugh.
“What if one of us is married?”
“Then the pact is off.”
“What if neither of us wants it anymore?”
I shake my head because that won’t happen for me. “Then we walk away.”
“Okay, but what if—” she starts.
I cut her off gently, “Presley.”
She looks at me. Really looks at me.
