We stand there for a moment, the distance between us not charged anymore, not uncertain, just… present.
“What does it look like,” I ask.
He tilts his head slightly.
“What does what look like?”
“The future,” I say.
He doesn’t answer immediately, and I can see the calculation there, not avoidance, not hesitation, just the habit of thinking it through before speaking.
“It looks stable,” he says finally. “Not static. Not rigid. But something that holds even when it’s under pressure.”
I nod slowly.
“That’s a good start,” I say.
“And you?” he asks.
“What does it look like to you?”
I consider that, not rushing it, letting the answer form instead of forcing it.
“It looks like choice,” I say. “Not just once. Not just here. But consistently. Every part of it built on the idea that we don’t trap people into staying.”
He watches me closely.
“That includes you,” he says.
“Yes.”
“And you’re still here,” he adds.
I meet his gaze.
“Yes.”
That word lands the same way it always does now—solid, intentional, unmoving.
He steps closer then, not abruptly, not pulling the space tight, just closing it gradually until he’s standing in front of me, his presence steady, grounded.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he says.
It’s not a command.
Not even a question.
Just… recognition.
“No,” I reply.
His hand lifts slightly, settling at my waist, not gripping, not holding me in place, just… there.
“Good,” he says quietly.
I let out a small breath, something that feels lighter than anything I’ve carried before, and I rest my hand lightly against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm beneath it.
“There’s something else,” I say.
