Her inhale is sharp.
“I don’t say it because when I say it,” I continue, voice rough, “it becomes real.”
“It already is.”
I slide my hand into her hair.
“You don’t understand what that means for me.”
“Then tell me.”
My forehead lowers to hers.
“It means I stop hiding behind grief,” I admit. “It means I stop pretending duty is enough.”
“And?”
“It means if I lose you,” I say quietly, “it’ll wreck me.”
She pulls back just enough to look at me.
“You don’t protect yourself from loss by refusing to love,” she says. “You just guarantee you’re alone.”
The truth hits hard.
“You think I don’t see you packing and feel like my chest is splitting open?” I ask. “I’m thirty-seven,” I say. “You’re twenty-four.”
“And?”
“I’ve lived a whole life before you.”
“I’m not threatened by that.”
“I come with history.”
“So do I.”
“You deserve someone who doesn’t hesitate.”
“Then stop hesitating.”
The air between us crackles.
I look at her suitcase again.
At the reality of waking up tomorrow and her not being here.
Not hearing her laugh in the kitchen.
Not watching her braid Lacee’s hair at the counter.
The thought feels wrong.
Viscerally wrong.
“You walk out that door,” I say slowly, “and I lose the best thing that’s happened to me since the fire.”
Her eyes widen slightly.
