His eyes search mine.
“That’s your choice,” he says.
“Yes,” I reply.
The word settles into the space between us, heavier than anything else we’ve said, because it isn’t about survival anymore.
It’s about decision.
His hand moves slightly against my side, not pulling, just adjusting, and I let mine follow, sliding from his shoulder up along his neck, my fingers threading lightly into the edge of his hair.
“You’re different,” I say.
His brow furrows faintly.
“Because I didn’t destroy everything?” he asks.
I shake my head slightly.
“No,” I say. “Because you could have.”
He considers that, his gaze shifting just enough to show the weight of it.
“I’ve done that before,” he says.
“I know,” I reply.
“And you stayed anyway,” he says.
“I didn’t stay,” I correct. “I came back.”
That lands.
Hard.
His hand tightens again, then eases, like he’s recalibrating even now.
“Why?” he asks.
I let my thumb trace lightly along his jaw, feeling the tension there, the control layered over instinct.
“Because this,” I say, my voice quieter now, more deliberate, “isn’t something you take.”
He watches me closely.
“It’s something you choose,” I finish.
“And you’re choosing it,” he says.
“Yes.”
The word comes without hesitation.
Without doubt.
And that’s what changes everything.
His other hand comes up then, slower this time, more careful, resting against my back, not pulling me in, just holding me there, letting me decide how close we get.
