"To destroying the past," I say.
"To choosing the future," he counters, handing the bottle back.
We pass it between us, drinking champagne in the morning sun, standing over the ruins of my wedding cake. I'm covered in frosting and probably look completely insane, but I haven't felt this free ever in my entire life.
This is choice. This is power. This is taking everything they tried to do to me and destroying it completely.
And he's here with me, celebrating it, loving me for it.
And me loving him.
The realization hits me so suddenly it steals my breath.
I love him.
Not falling. Not getting there. Not almost.
I love him and there’s no going back.
The bottle dangles from my hand as I turn to face him fully.
"Hey Renato," I say, and something in my voice makes him go very still.
"Yes?"
"I love you."
For a moment, he doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. Just stares at me like I've said something impossible.
Then he's moving, crossing the space between us in two strides. He grabs me—frosting-covered and champagne-drunk and probably completely ridiculous looking—and kisses me.
It's desperate and claiming and filled with every emotion we've both been holding back.
The champagne bottle falls from my hand into the grass as I wrap my arms around his neck, kissing him back with equal intensity. He tastes like champagne and the future I'm choosing.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard. His hand comes up to cup my face, his thumb tracing my cheekbone with devastating gentleness.
"Say it again," he demands.
"I love you," I repeat, and saying it out loud makes it more real. "I love that you're trying so hard to be better. I love that you let me destroy this cake and stood here watching like it was the most beautiful thing you've ever seen." I kiss him softly. "I love you. And I'm done being scared."
His eyes are bright—too bright—and when he speaks, his voice cracks slightly. "I don't deserve you."
"Yeah, probably not,” I tease. “But I'm choosing you anyway."
He pulls me close, his forehead resting against mine. "I love you more than anything. You know that, right? How I would burn the entire world down to keep you safe? How I will kill anyone who threatens to hurt you?"
"I know." I thread my fingers through his hair. "That's why I'm not scared anymore."
We stand there in the wreckage of my destroyed wedding cake, covered in frosting, the champagne bottle lying forgotten in the grass. And I've never been happier.
This is what choosing feels like. Not being chosen—though he chose me first, in his own fucked up way. But actively choosing. Making the decision for myself.
I choose this man. This life. This future.
All of it.
He’s quiet for a moment, and when he speaks, there's something nervous in his voice, something vulnerable that I've rarely seen. "I want to ask you something,” he says.
