I give her a moment. Then:
“There’s no going back from this. You know that.”
She nods slowly. “You said that. Last night.”
“I meant it. I mean it now.” I hold her gaze so she can see I’m not hedging. Not softening it for her benefit. “If you walk away from this, I’ll respect that. But I won’t be able to pretend none of it happened. I won’t be able to sit across from you at work and go back to how things were.”
Something flickers across her face. The old fear. The friendship. The job.
I get there before she can.
“And if you’re worried that being with me is going to create problems for you at work—” I break, pause, consider for barely a nanosecond. “Don’t. I can find another job. I won’t ever find another you.”
She stares at me.
For a long moment she just — stares.
“You’d quit,” she says finally. Not a question. She’s testing the weight of it.
“Tomorrow. Without hesitation.”
“Miller—”
“I’m not saying I want to. FMJ is a goodcompany, and I like our work.” I hold her gaze. “But you’re not a variable I’m willing to negotiate on.”
Another long silence.
Then — quietly, carefully — she asks, “Is this really what you want?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
“Tavey.” My voice comes out lower than I intended. “I’ve been sure. Probably since the moment we met.”
That lands.
I watch it land.
Watch the last of the resistance go out of her eyes like a tide retreating.
“Okay,” she says softly.
“Okay?”
“Yeah.” And then, with a smile that starts small and becomes something devastating: “And. Not or. Friends and lovers.”
Something in my chest simply — settles.
“Good,” I say.
Before I can kiss her again, she asks, “Can I ask yet?”
I raise an eyebrow.
“What am I?” she asks.
“Not yet.” I slide my hand down her back, testing. Watching. Ready to stop if she pulls away.
