"My bag," she says suddenly, halting mid-step and turning back toward the platforms. "I left it on the bench—I just dropped everything when you..."
"I'll buy you whatever you need," I say, already pulling her forward again. "New clothes, new toiletries, anything."
"Cillian." Her voice carries an edge of panic now. "My grandmother's photo album is in there. The one she kept from before the war—it's the only copy."
That stops me. I know what her grandmother meant to her, what those memories represent. I squeeze her hand and guide herback toward the platform, where her bag is still sitting on the bench, miraculously untouched. She grabs it and clutches it to her chest, and I see the relief flood her face.
"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm sorry for running. I thought I was doing the right thing."
"I know." I brush a strand of hair from her face. "But you have to understand something, Waverly. There's no version of my life that works without you in it. Not anymore. So the next time you decide to sacrifice yourself for my benefit, maybe talk to me first?"
She laughs, and the sound loosens something tight in my chest. "Deal."
We take a cab back to her apartment, sitting close together in the back seat, my arm around her shoulders. The city slides past the windows, but I'm not watching it. I'm watching her. The curve of her cheek. The way she worries her bottom lip when she's thinking. The pulse fluttering at the base of her throat.
"What happens now?" she asks quietly, her voice still trembling with the aftershocks of everything we've just been through.
"Now we go home. We rest. We figure out the next steps together." I tuck her closer against my side as the cab driver navigates through evening traffic.
"And the church? The laicization process?"
"Still in progress. It'll take months, maybe longer, but I've already submitted everything—all the paperwork, all the formal requests. There's no going back, even if I wanted to." I tip her chin up with my fingers so she's looking directly at me, so shecan see the certainty in my eyes. "Which I don't. Just to be absolutely clear."
"Just to be absolutely clear," she echoes, and there's a hint of a tremulous smile playing at the corners of her lips.
The cab drops us at her building, and we climb the three flights of stairs together, my hand at the small of her back. Her apartment feels different when we walk in—the air seems charged with everything that's happened, everything that's been said, everything that's changed between us. She sets her bag down carefully on the floor and stands in the middle of the living room, looking a little lost, a little uncertain.
"I should unpack," she says, glancing at the bag. "Put things back where they belong."
"That can wait." I cross the room in three strides and pull her into my arms, feeling her warmth seep into my chest. "Right now, I need you to know something."
She looks up at me, her hazel eyes wide and waiting, her hands coming to rest against my chest.
"When I thought I'd lost you, when your landlord told me you'd cleared out and I realized you were actually leaving..." I swallow hard. "I've never been more terrified in my life. Not when my brother died. Not when I decided to enter the seminary. Not ever. The idea of a world without you in it was unbearable."
Her eyes fill with tears that catch the light from the window, threatening to spill over onto her flushed cheeks. "I thought I was protecting you from making a choice you'd regret."
"I don't need protection from my own decisions. I need you. Just you, exactly as you are. Every single day, for as long as you'll have me."
"That might be a very long time," she whispers, her voice trembling with hope and vulnerability.
"Good." I kiss her forehead tenderly, then her damp cheeks, then the corner of her mouth where it curves upward. "I'm counting on it. I want forever with you."
I guide her toward the bedroom, and she comes willingly, her hands already reaching for the hem of my sweater. We undress each other slowly, savoring each moment, each reveal. This is different from the desperate encounters of the past week. This is deliberate. This is a promise.
When we're both naked, I lay her down on the bed and just look at her. At the soft curves of her body, the honey-brown curls spread across the pillow, the flush creeping up her chest as my gaze travels over her.
"You're staring," she says, her voice breathy and uncertain, though the flush spreading across her skin deepens under my gaze.
"I'm memorizing every detail," I tell her, my voice rough with emotion. "I want to remember exactly how you look right now, in this precise moment—the light touching your skin, the way your hair falls, the rise and fall of your chest. The moment I knew for certain, beyond any shadow of doubt, that you were mine and I was yours."
"I've been yours since that night in the confessional," she admits, her fingers twisting in the sheets beneath her. "From the very beginning, when I heard your voice in the darkness. I was justtoo scared to believe it could be real, that something this good could actually be mine to keep."
"It's real." I lower myself over her, bracing my weight on my forearms so I don't crush her. "This is real. We are real. And I'm going to spend every day proving it to you."
I kiss her then, deep and thorough, pouring everything I feel into the press of my lips against hers. She arches up against me, her hands sliding into my hair, and I feel her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me closer.
There's no urgency this time. We have hours, days, a lifetime. I take my time exploring her body, kissing my way down her throat, across her collarbone, to the soft swell of her breasts. I take one nipple into my mouth and feel her gasp, her hips rolling against mine.
