“You hear me, Sophia Vitale,” he says. “Whatever those people decide in their quiet room… I am proud of you. You did not let them make you small.”
Something in my chest finally, finally gives.
“I love you,” I whisper.
The words slip out before I can run them through any of my usual filters. No pros and cons list. No analysis of timing or impact. Just the truth, raw and unedited.
Time does a strange thing.
For half a heartbeat, he goes utterly still.
Not frozen. Not recoiling.
Like a man who’s just been hit somewhere he didn’t armor because he didn’t know he needed to.
My brain starts to panic, to fill the silence.
Too much. Too soon. Wrong moment. He just watched you cry snotty academic tears; you should have waited until you looked less like a raccoon—
“Sophia,” he breathes.
My name sounds wrecked in his mouth.
His eyes close for a moment, and when he opens them again, they’re shining in a way I’ve never seen.
He doesn’t say ‘I love you’.
He says, “You are home. My home.”
It’s barely sound. Almost a confession to the space between us rather than to me.
But every cell in my body hears it.
His hands tighten slightly on my face, as if he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.
“In my time,” he continues, voice scraping like it’s digging through old stone, “men like me did not get… this. Someone who sees all the broken places and does not turn away. Someone who walks into the worst story I carry and stays.” A breath, jagged. “If I had known a word like your ‘love’ back then, I would have carved it into my bones so I did not forget it. I do not need to carve it now. You put it there yourself.”
My vision blurs completely.
He leans in that last impossible fraction and presses his forehead more firmly to mine.
It feels like a seal. A vow. Like something ancient and feral and tender all at once.
His thumb strokes the corner of my mouth, catching salt.
“I cannot say all the right words in your language,” he whispers. “But know this: there is no world where I do not choose you. No arena. No Sanctuary. No quiet room full of small men with big titles. You hear me?”
I nod, sobbing and laughing at the same time.
“Hey,” he murmurs. One hand leaves my face long enough to press against my sternum, warm and steady. “Breathe with me.”
We do.
Four in. Hold. Six out.
Our foreheads stay pressed together the whole time.
Slowly, my shaking eases. My heart rate drops from hummingbird to merely overcaffeinated.
