"I thought I wasn't enough for you to fight for," she continues, and there's rawness in her voice now.
I step closer, slowly, like approaching something fragile that might shatter if I move too fast.
"I fought," I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I intend. “Every single fucking day, I fought.”
Her breath catches.
"I wrote," I continue, needing her to understand. Needing her to know that the silence wasn't indifference. "Every week for two years. Poured everything I had into those letters because it was the only way I knew how to stay connected to you while I was putting myself back together."
"I know," she says. "I read them. Every single one. I've been reading them for days and I can't stop crying because—" her voice breaks, "—because you never gave up."
Her hand presses flat against my chest, right over my heart, like she's checking to make sure I'm real.
"You don't get to love me this quietly anymore," she whispers, and there's steel underneath the softness. A demand. A promise. "I need loud, Nate. I need you to tell me when you're scared instead of making decisions for both of us because you think you're protecting me."
My breath shudders. My shoulders drop.
"I didn't know how to love you loudly without hurting you," I admit. "Without being selfish. Without asking you to give upeverything you built for a maybe."
"This isn't a maybe," she says, and her other hand comes up to cup my face. "This has never been a maybe. We're inevitable, remember? We just took the long way getting here."
The space between us disappears.
Her lips meet mine, and the world goes silent in that familiar, grounding way—like coming home after being gone too long.
No fireworks. No chaos.
Just warmth, steadiness, and the deep, quiet relief of finally being where I belong.
Where we belong.
My whole body relaxes as I kiss her like I've wanted to for seven years. My hands find her waist, pull her closer, and she makes a sound against my mouth that breaks and heals me all at once.
When we pull back—just far enough to breathe, to see each other—her forehead rests against mine.
"Hi," she says, smiling through tears.
"Hi," I breathe, and I can't help smiling back.
She laughs softly, the sound shaky and real and perfect.
"We really took the long way, didn't we?"
"We needed to," I say, because I believe it.
Her hand closes around the pebble still resting in my palm, her fingers warm and certain.
"Penguins don't rush," she murmurs, and I remember saying those exact words to her in Málaga.
Remember meaning them even when I didn't fully understand what they'd come to represent.
Neither do soulmates,I think.
And eventually, if they're lucky, they find their way home.
CHAPTER 48
IT'S A GIRL
