“And now?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he lifts his hand, slow enough that I could stop him if I wanted to, and lets it hover near my waist without closing the distance.
“I’m still choosing,” he says finally.
That lands.
Different.
Better.
I nod once, small, acknowledging it, then let my hand move, sliding from his collar to his shoulder, feeling the strength there, the tension that never really leaves him.
“Good,” I say quietly.
His hand settles against my side then, firm but not restrictive, the contact grounding instead of claiming, and the shift between us is immediate, not explosive, not overwhelming, but deeper, steadier.
“You scared me,” he says, his voice lower now, rougher in a way that feels unfiltered.
I glance up at him.
“I know,” I reply.
“You left,” he says, the words tighter now.
“I did,” I agree.
His hand tightens slightly, not enough to hurt, just enough to register.
“Don’t do that again,” he says.
I raise an eyebrow slightly, my lips curving just enough to soften the edge of the moment.
“That sounded a lot like an order,” I say.
Something shifts in his expression, the instinct there, immediate, but this time?—
He catches it.
Lets it go.
“You’re right,” he says after a second, his voice leveling out. “It did.”
I wait.
“And?” I prompt.
“And I don’t get to make that call for you,” he finishes.
That lands exactly where it needs to.
I step closer again, closing the last of the space between us, my body aligning with his, not because he pulled me there, but because I chose it.
“No,” I say quietly. “You don’t.”
His breath shifts slightly, deeper now, his focus narrowing to me completely.
“But I don’t plan on leaving,” I add.
