“I know.”
“Then stop treating me like I am.”
I step closer—but not into her space. Just enough that she can feel the shift.
“I’m not treating you like you’re fragile,” I say quietly. “I’m treating you like you matter.”
That stops her.
Completely.
Her breath catches—not from pain.
From impact.
The room goes still around us.
“You keep saying things like that,” she murmurs.
“Like what?”
“Like you’ve already decided something.”
I hold her gaze.
“I have.”
Her eyes search mine, slower now. Deeper.
“And what is that?” she asks.
“That you’re not doing this alone.”
The words land heavier than I expect.
Because they’re not strategy.
They’re not temporary.
They’re not negotiable.
Scout studies me for a long second.
Then—
“That wasn’t the plan,” she says.
“No.”
“That complicates things.”
“Yeah.”
A pause.
Neither of us moves.
Then she exhales softly, looking down at her hands before lifting her gaze back to mine.
