Shetakes it.
We stroll backthrough the side streets off University Square, unhurried.
The city has gone soft around the edges—lamplight pooling on stone, voices drifting from open windows, music leaking out of somewhere we pass but don’t stop. She stays close at my side, fingers laced with mine, her thumb tracing that same quiet pattern against my knuckle like she’s grounding herself.
Or grounding us both.
Halfway down the block, I slow and tug her gently toward me.
“You’re coming up,” I say. It’s not a question, and she doesn’t pretend to misunderstand.
Her gaze lifts to mine, steady and unguarded. “I know.”
The hotel lobby is quiet—glass and marble and muted light. I keep my palm at the curve of her back as we cross it, hyperaware of everything: the desk clerk’s brief glance, the older couple by the elevator who smile at us like we’re just another young couple in love.
We are.
In the elevator, the space tightens.
She turns toward me, and I see it in her eyes—the same awareness thrumming through me. We’re alone. We have a room. And nothing is between us.
“You okay?” I ask quietly, giving her the out if she needs it.
Her mouth curves. “Very.” Then, softer, “Are you?”
“I’ve been waiting for you to trust me again,” I admit. “Hoping you’d find your way back to me.”
She reaches up, palm gentle against my jaw. “I’m glad I did.”
The elevator dings.
I lace my fingers through hers. “Comeon.”
The hallway is hushed, carpet swallowing sound. Inside, the room is dim and clean and anonymous in the way hotels always are—fresh sheets, city lights blinking through the window. I shut the door behind us.
For a beat, we just stand there.
Then she steps into me, closing the last inch with intention, her palms flattening against my chest as if she’s confirming I’m solid. Hers.
I don’t move at first. Let the moment settle. Let her feel the way my body goes still around her.
“Kieran,” she murmurs, breathing me in.
I tilt my head, brush my mouth against her hair. “I’m here.”
Her fingers slide up my chest, unbuttoning my shirt, mapping muscle she already knows. The contact registers—achingly familiar, impossibly loaded with memory—and for a split second, I’m back at the river, jaw locked, breath measured, letting her touch me while every instinct screamed to move.
I close my eyes for half a second. Long enough to remember how close I came to breaking.
When I open them again, tears are streaming down her face.
My chest constricts. “Hey.” I still completely, searching her expression. I kiss the tears away, tasting salt and survival. “I thought I lost you. But we’re here now. You and me. That’s all that matters.”
I frame her face with both hands, thumbs warm against her cheeks. “You’re everything to me.” The words should terrify me—I’ve never said them to anyone, never let myself be this exposed—but they don’t. They feel like relief. Like truth. “It was that way from the first momentI saw you across that room and you shut me down. I just didn’t know how to recalibrate fast enough.”
Her eyes shine, searching mine.
“I need you to hear this,” I add, voice rough with certainty. “I love you. I’m yours.”
