She laughs through her tears. "That's a terrible sales pitch."
"I'm not trying to sell you anything. I'm just asking you to take a chance on me. On us. One more time."
"One more time," she repeats. "And if you hesitate again?—"
"I won't."
"But if you do?—"
"Then you walk away and I'll deserve it. But Isla?" I tilt her face up to meet my eyes. "I don't think I will. Because that hesitation? That was fear. Fear of losing my father's approval, of disappointing my family, of not being who they expect. But I'm more afraid of losing you. And when you're more afraid of one thing than another, the choice becomes easy."
"Is it? Easy?"
"You are the easiest decision I've ever made. Everything else is just noise."
She studies my face for a long time. Looking for lies, for doubt, for any sign that I'm not completely serious.
"Okay," she says finally.
"Okay?"
"Okay, we'll try. One more time. But Sebastian—" Her voice hardens. "This is it. This is your last chance. If you hurt me again, if you choose your legacy over me again, we're done. Permanently. No more poetry, no more grand gestures, no more chances. Do you understand?"
"I understand."
"Good." She wipes her eyes. "Now kiss me before I change my mind."
I don't need to be told twice.
I kiss her like I've been dying without her. Like she's air and I've been drowning. Like she's home and I've been lost.
She kisses me back with equal intensity, her hands in my hair, her body pressed against mine.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathless.
"I missed you," she murmur against my lips.
"It's been a week."
"Longest week of my life."
"Drama queen." I joke with her, because I’ve missed her too.
"Your drama queen."
She smiles, really smiles and it's the most beautiful thing I've seen in days.
"My drama queen," she agrees. "God help me."
We sit on the couch, talking about everything. About what happened at the gala, about who lied and why, about what comes next.
I tell her about cutting off my father, about resigning from Legacy Council. She tells me about blocking my number, about her friends' support, about almost not giving me this chance.
"What changed your mind?" I ask.
"The journal. Specifically the last poem." She traces patterns on my palm. "You wrote that you're choosing me every day, every moment, without hesitation. Even if it's too late. That's what I needed to hear. Not that you're perfect. But that you're trying."
"I am trying. Every day. To be worthy of you."
