“You didn’t step in,” I say softly.
“When?” he asks.
“With Brad.” I don’t need to say Brad’s name. “You didn’t claim. You didn’t challenge.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“I did not need to.”
“Why?”
He steps close enough that I feel the warmth of him through fabric and air.
“Because you were not wavering,” he says. “And because I do not fight battles that are not mine to win.”
Emotions try to choke off further words, but I swallow them down with difficulty.
“You trust me,” I say.
“Yes.”
Not a hint of hesitation, caution or reservation.
Yes.
The simplicity of it nearly undoes me. I close the last inch of space between us.
His hands hover for half a second, giving me room to stop him if I choose. I don’t.
They settle at my waist, firm but not possessive. Steady. Familiar.
“You called me dragoste,” I say, searching his face.
His gaze darkens, not with hunger alone but with something that feels like inevitability.
“I did.”
“That wasn’t strategy.”
“No.”
“That wasn’t politics.”
“No.”
His thumb brushes once along the curve of my side, barely there. My breath shifts in response before I can control it.
“It was truth,” he says.
I study him. The lines carved by survival. The patience he’s had with me. The way he stood beside me instead of in front of me. The way he yielded the floor to the children and never tried to own the outcome.
“I am not treasure,” I say softly.
“I know.”
“I won’t be claimed.”
“I know.”
