The words hit like heat against bare skin.
“You don’t get to keep me because you’re afraid to be alone,” I say quietly.
“I’m not afraid to be alone.”
“You’ve been alone for almost a decade.”
His jaw tightens. “That’s not the same thing.”
“No,” I agree. “It’s worse.”
Silence hums.
He steps in closer until there’s no space left between us. “You think I don’t know what I’m asking?” he says softly. “You think I don’t understand what it means to let you in?”
“I think you’re finally admitting you want to.”
His eyes darken. “I don’t just want you.” The words vibrate low in his chest. “I choose you. You’re not a replacement,” he continues, voice steady but thick. “You’re not a distraction. You’re not some temporary thing that showed up because I was lonely.”
“I know that.”
“I need you to hear it anyway.”
My throat tightens.
“I love you,” he says again, slower this time. “Not because you healed me. Not because Lacee loves you. Not because you make the house warm.” His hand slides to my waist. “I love you because when you look at me, I feel alive.” The words knock the breath out of me. “You brought light back to my ashes,” he whispers, and it doesn’t sound poetic. It sounds like confession.
My fingers curl into his shirt.
“I never wanted to fix you,” I say. “I just wanted to stand next to you.”
His mouth hovers inches from mine. “I don’t want fixing.”
“Good.”
“I want you.”
The air between us turns electric. His palm presses against the small of my back, steadying me. His forehead rests against mine.
“You sure?” he murmurs.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
He studies my face like he’s memorizing it.
“You’re young,” he says quietly.
“I’m grown.”
“You could have anyone.”
“I don’t want anyone.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. “You don’t know what the next ten years look like.”
“I know what they feel like standing here.”
That stops him.
