He lifts his head and looks up at me with red-rimmed eyes.
He’s exhausted, but determined.
Sodetermined.
"I need you to understand something. What we're doing—it's dangerous. There's a chance?—"
"Don't."
"Ingrid—"
"Don't tell me there's a chance you won't come back. I can't hear that right now. I can't process that right now."
"But I need you to know?—"
"I already know." I cup his face. "I know the risks. I know what you're walking into. I know that last time you came back with a knife wound that almost killed you. I know all of it, Gunnar. And I'm terrified. I'm so fucking terrified I can barely breathe."
"Then let me say?—"
"No. You don't get to say goodbye. You don't get to make this feel final." Tears burn my eyes. "You tell me you'll come back. That's what you say. Nothing else."
He's quiet for a long moment.
Searching my face.
Seeing the fear I can't hide.
"I'll come back."
"Promise me."
"I promise."
"Say it again."
"I promise, Ingrid. I will come back to you."
I kiss him, hard, desperate, pouring every fear, every hope, every prayer into it.
When I pull back, we're both breathing heavily, both clinging to each other like the world might end if we let go.
"I love you," I whisper.
"I love you too. More than anything. More than my own life."
"Come back to me."
"Always."
The afternoon passes in a blur.
Preparations continue.
The men gear up and the women gather.
It happens naturally, instinctively.
Ol’ ladies drawing together for support, for comfort, for the solidarity that comes from shared fear.
