My chest tightens so hard I have to bow my head.
I’ve spent my whole adult life chasing usefulness. Proving I could be relied on. Learning how to carry weight without dropping it.
And here it is. The thing that matters most. Offered freely by a kid who doesn’t care about my past or my fears or my excuses.
She just wants me to stay.
I fold the letter carefully and tuck it into my jacket, right over my heart.
I don’t have to think about my next step. I know.
I don’t call first.
I don’t want Abby to have time to talk herself out of anything.
Her porch light is on when I pull into the driveway, and the sight of it does something deep and settling to my chest. Like a place waiting.
I knock.
She opens the door almost immediately, like she was already there.
Her hair is loose again. She’s wearing soft pants and an oversized sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up. She looks tired.
She looks gorgeous.
“Hey,” she says quietly.
“Hey.”
For a moment, we just stand there. The past hovers. The future waits.
Then I pull the letter from my jacket and hold it out to her.
“She wrote me,” I say.
Her breath catches as she takes it, reading slowly, one hand rising to cover her mouth.
“Oh,” she whispers. “Oh, Brendon.”
“I don’t need her to call me anything,” I say carefully. “I don’t need labels or promises or expectations.”
She looks up at me, eyes shining.
“But I need you to know this,” I continue. “I’m not here by accident. I’m not drifting. I’m choosing you. Both of you.”
Her voice trembles. “I’m scared.”
“I know,” I say gently. “I am too.”
I step closer, slow and deliberate, giving her space to pull away if she needs it.
“But I’m done running,” I say. “And I’m done assuming I’m not wanted.”
She swallows hard. “I don’t want you to promise things you can’t keep.”
“I won’t,” I say. “I’m not offering forever as an idea. I’m offering it as work.”
Her breath hitches.
