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Then, “You.”
My pulse jumped.
“Why?”
His hand tightened slightly at my waist—not enough to restrain, just enough to register.
“Because you’re still deciding who you are in this.”
That landed deeper than I expected.
I swallowed.
“I know who I am.”
“You know who you’ve been,” he corrected.
The words slid under my skin.
“And now?” I asked.
His gaze held mine, steady and unyielding.
“Now you’re expanding that.”
I exhaled slowly, the truth of that settling into places I hadn’t fully examined yet.
Because it was true.
This wasn’t a contradiction.
It wasn’t a collapse of everything I believed.
It was something more complicated.
More layered.
More dangerous.
My fingers traced absently along his shoulder again, my thoughts quieter now, less sharp-edged.
“And you’re just going to … stay in Charleston?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“As long as I need to.”
“And that depends on … me?”
“In part.”
The honesty in that answer didn’t feel manipulative.
It felt measured.
Controlled.
