"You've thought about it."
"Of course I've thought about it."
"And?"
I swallow hard. "And it terrifies me. This place. It's all I have. It's the only thing I've ever built that's mine. If I lose it?—"
The words stick on my tongue, tangled up with all the half-formed fears I've been too busy to articulate. I weigh the binoculars in my hands, at the worn rubber grips and the smudge of flour I must have left on the lens days ago. Such a small, stupid detail to focus on, but it's easier than looking at Grath. Easier than saying the truth out loud.
Grath waits. Patient and still beside me, his breathing slow and even. He doesn't push. Doesn't try to fill the silence with platitudes or reassurances. Just sits there, solid and warm, like he has all the time in the world for me to find the words.
Finally, I force them out.
"If I lose it, I've failed," I finish, my voice barely above a whisper. "Failed the town. Failed the cats. Failed everyone who believed in me. Failed myself." Each word feels like admitting defeat, like speaking the fear makes it more real, more inevitable. My fingers tighten on the binoculars until my knuckles ache.
"You haven't failed," Grath says quietly.
I swallow hard against the tightness in my body. "Not yet."
"Not ever." His voice is firm. Final. Like he's stating a fact rather than an opinion. "You work harder than anyone I've met. You care more. You don't give up even when things are bad. That's not failing."
"It is if I lose everything anyway."
"Then you rebuild."
I laugh. It comes out bitter and sharp. "Just like that?"
"Just like that."
"You make it sound easy."
"It's not easy. It's just. What you do. When things break." He shifts, turning to face me more fully. "I've lost everything before. More than once. Thought it would kill me. But I'm still here. Still breathing. Still trying."
The honesty in his voice wrecks me.
"What if trying isn't enough?"
"Then you tried. That's more than most people do."
I look at him. Really look at him. This man who appeared in my life like a storm, unexpected and overwhelming, who's somehow become essential in the span of days.
"I'm scared," I admit. "Of losing control. Of everything falling apart. Of not being enough."
"You're enough."
"You don't know that."
"I do." He reaches out, slow and careful, and takes my hand. His palm is rough and warm, his fingers curling around mine with surprising gentleness. "You're enough for me."
The words land like a physical touch, sending heat spiraling through my chest.
"Grath—"
"I'm scared too," he says. Quiet. Almost a whisper. "Of wanting this. Wanting you. Of letting myself feel things I swore I wouldn't feel again."
"Why?"
"Because people leave. Or they use you. Or they decide you're not worth the trouble." His thumb brushes across my knuckles, a soft repetitive motion. "And when they do, it hurts worse than anything physical ever could."
