I run a finger along the rim of my mug. "Easy for you to say."
"No," he answers, leaning forward. "Not easy. Just true."
His gaze holds mine, steady and patient, but not soft. There's an invitation in his eyes—nothing pushy, nothing demanding—just an open door.
"I told you last night," he says, "I'm handling Tom. Whether you and I are together or not doesn't change that. He crossed a line. You don't let people like that keep walking. And I won't."
My heart stutters. "You found something, didn't you?"
"Enough," he says. "More than enough. But that's a separate conversation." He taps the table lightly once. "This conversation is about you. Your choice. What you want."
I take a long sip of chai, hoping the spices will settle me. They don't. If anything, the warmth in my chest grows heavier.
"I thought I was protecting myself by keeping distance," I admit. "By pretending this could just be casual or temporary." I shake my head. "But I was wrong."
His jaw tics, a small movement I catch only because I've been staring at him too much lately. "Tell me how."
"Because none of this feels temporary anymore." My fingers curl around the cup. "I've been imagining the worst things they could say about me. About you and us. And even if every rumor were true, even if they're all outside right now whispering your name like it's some kind of scandal…"
I meet his eyes again.
"I'd still choose you."
Something shifts in his expression. It's subtle, but it hits me like a warm hand closing around mine. The steady part of him softens just a little, and it makes my stomach flip.
"For a long time," I say, "I thought wanting someone made me stupid. That needing anything from anyone made me weak. But when you look at me… I don't feel weak. I feel like maybe I've been measuring the wrong things."
He doesn't speak. He just watches me like he's letting every word sink somewhere deeper than his ears.
"And I'm tired, Gabe." My voice drops. "I'm tired of letting people who don't even know me decide what kind of life I'm allowed to have. I'm tired of feeling wrong for wanting something good."
He exhales slowly, and there's a quiet pride in the way he looks at me now. Not smug. Not victorious. Just someone relieved to finally hear something he'd been hoping for.
"I'm not asking you to pick me because it's easy," he says. "I'm asking you to pick the life that feels real to you."
"I know," I whisper.
He waits patiently, with a small smile on his face, like he's giving me space to step over some invisible threshold. I lean in before I even realize I've moved. My palms press against the table. My heart thuds hard enough that I can feel it in my throat.
His eyes drop to my mouth.
I close the small distance between us and kiss him. He sighs and holds my chin as I inhale the comfort of being this close to him. When we finally break apart, he moves a thumb over my cheek, smiling quietly. "Okay, now we get to work."
He waits for me to settle before sliding his phone to the center of the table. "I found something," he says. "A lot of somethings."
My stomach tightens. "Okay… how bad?"
He reaches into his jacket and takes out a small notepad. Real paper. Spiral-bound. I blink. "You carry that around?"
"I didn't have time to organize it," he says. "So I wrote it down."
He flips it open and turns it toward me. The first page is a list of names—maybe ten, maybe twelve. Some are circled. Some have question marks. One is written twice.
"Who are these?" I ask quietly.
"Every woman he's ghosted," Gabe says. "Every woman he talked to while he was ‘exclusive' with someone else. A few of them probably think he's the one who got away. A few don't care. And two flat-out hate him."
I look at the list again. "You found all this in one night?"
