“Do you have any idea what you’re risking?” he asks.
“I’m not fragile.”
“I’m not talking about fragile.”
His thumb presses into the small of my back, pulling me closer.
“I’m talking about the fact that if you get this deep with me,” he says, voice roughening, “you don’t get half of me. You get all of it. The grief. The fear. The nights like this.”
“I’m not afraid of that.”
“I am.”
The confession vibrates between us.
He’s scared.
Not of losing control.
Of losing again.
“You think living half-alive is honoring her?” I ask gently.
His jaw tightens. “That’s not fair.”
“No,” I say. “It’s honest.”
Silence. The clock ticks behind us.
“You loved her,” I continue. “You still do. That doesn’t disappear.”
“Don’t,” he warns.
“I’m not trying to replace her.”
“I know.”
“Then stop acting like I am.” His grip on my waist tightens. “I don’t want to replace anything,” I say. “I want to build something.”
His breathing shifts. “You make it sound simple.”
“It isn’t.”
“Then why are you still here?”
Because you’re worth it.
Because your daughter needs joy.
Because I love the way you look at me when you forget to be afraid.
I don’t say any of that.
Instead, I lift my chin.
“Because I don’t want a man who’s just surviving,” I say. “I want a man who’s living.”
His eyes darken. “And you think that’s me?”
