I let out a slow breath, my fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the console beside me, grounding myself in something physical before I answer.
“I’m thinking,” I say.
“That’s never a small thing with you,” he replies, a faint edge of something almost amused threading through the words, though his posture stays still, contained.
“No,” I agree, turning slightly so I’m facing him fully now, letting my gaze settle on him instead of the room. “It’s not.”
He studies me, not pushing, not pulling, just… there, present in a way that feels different than before, less like he’s waiting for me to react and more like he’s letting me decide what comes next.
“You changed everything out there,” he says.
I tilt my head slightly.
“No,” I reply. “I showed them what was already broken.”
His jaw shifts faintly, like he’s turning that over, not arguing it, but not dismissing it either.
“And now?” he asks.
I step closer, slow, deliberate, closing just enough of the space that the air between us warms further, thickens.
“Now they have to live with it,” I say.
“And us?” he presses, his voice quieter now, the question heavier than the words themselves.
I hold his gaze, letting the silence stretch long enough to mean something before I answer.
“That depends,” I say.
“On what?” he asks.
I don’t answer immediately. Instead, I reach up slowly, my fingers brushing along the line of his collar, not quite touching his skin yet, just close enough to feel the heat of it, the tension held there.
“On whether you understand something,” I say.
His eyes flick down to my hand, then back to my face, his expression tightening slightly, not defensive, but focused.
“Try me,” he says.
I let my fingers settle lightly against him now, not gripping, not claiming, just… resting.
“This,” I say quietly, gesturing subtly between us, “doesn’t happen because you decided it should.”
His gaze sharpens, but he doesn’t pull away.
“I know that,” he replies.
“Do you?” I ask, my voice soft but edged, because this matters more than anything we just survived.
He exhales slowly, his shoulders shifting just slightly, not in tension, but in adjustment.
“I didn’t come for you because I could,” he says. “I came because I chose to.”
“That’s not the same thing,” I reply.
“No,” he agrees. “It isn’t.”
I search his face, not for doubt, but for truth, for the difference between instinct and understanding.
