Measured.
Like he had the first night he’d crossed a room and made my entire body aware of him.
“Do you remember your letter?” he asked.
My throat tightened.
“Yes.”
“I kept it,” he said.
Of course, he had.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
Worn at the edges.
He didn’t open it. He didn’t need to.
“You wrote that you were tired of being good,” he said quietly. “Tired of being predictable. Tired of shrinking yourself to fit the world.”
My heart was pounding now.
“You asked for danger,” he continued. “You asked for a man who would see you. Not your title. Not your performance.”
I swallowed.
“You were brave enough to ask for that,” he said. “You were brave enough to choose it publicly.”
He stopped in front of me.
Close enough that I could feel his breath.
“I don’t want to be your rebellion,” he said. “Or your experiment. Or your defiance.”
My eyes stung.
“I want to be your alignment.”
The word hit like a bell ringing through bone.
“You didn’t choose me because I was safe,” he said. “And you didn’t choose me because I was dangerous.”
He lowered himself slowly onto one knee.
“You chose me because I saw you. And you saw me.”
The world narrowed to the space between us.
“You didn’t burn your life down,” he said softly. “You stepped out of a cage.”
He pulled a small velvet box from his jacket.
“I’m not asking you to shrink,” he said. “Or soften. Or compromise.”
He opened the box.
The ring was not delicate.
