He steps closer. Not crowding. Not looming. Just entering my orbit in that way he does that makes the rest of the world fall slightly out of focus.
“You thought they might crush you,” he says. “They did not.”
“They still could,” I say, because my brain likes to run worst-case scenarios as a hobby. “Blackwell will be furious. The department might circle the wagons. Some people will stop answering my emails.”
“Maybe,” he agrees. “Maybe some doors close. But others will open. And more important—” His hand lifts, fingers brushing his own chest. “Here. You know you did not disappear this time.”
The words hit with surgical precision.
Tears burn hot at the back of my eyes. Again. I am turning into a one-woman saltwater ecosystem.
I breathe through it—one, two, three.
“I kept thinking,” I say, “about what you told me. That victory is telling the truth and staying on your feet, not forcing the wheel to turn the way you want.”
He nods once, slow. “You did that,” he says. “The rest is… gods and paperwork.”
A wet laugh escapes me. “That should go on a mug.”
“I will ask Thrax to commission one,” he says gravely. “He likes stupid sayings on things.”
I snort, then choke, then give up and let it turn into a half-sob, half-laugh hybrid that makes absolutely no sense but feels unavoidable.
He opens his arms.
I don’t hesitate.
I step into him, into that solid, anchoring wall of muscle and warmth and familiar scent—leather and soap and faint roses from the wild bushes that climb the wooden fence. His arms close around me, firm and sure, one hand spreading across my upper back, the other cupping the back of my head.
For a long moment, I just breathe.
His chest rises and falls beneath my cheek. My fists knot in the back of his shirt. The world narrows down to the steady thump of his heart and the quiet rasp of his breath.
“You fought,” he says softly, voice vibrating against my ear. “You did not let them make you small. Whatever happens next… that part is already done. That is yours. No one can take it.”
I nod against him. One tear escapes and soaks into his collar. He doesn’t flinch.
When my breathing evens out, he eases back just enough to see my face.
Then he does it.
He presses his forehead to mine.
It’s intentional—steady, reverent. His hands cradle my skull like he’s holding something precious, something he has no intention of letting drop.
The contact lands with the same electric gravity as before, but now I notice the differences. Now I feel therecognitionin it. The returning. The choosing.
He’s done this before, in smaller moments—after I told him about the complaint, before the interview, in quiet places where words would have been too heavy. I knew it meant something, but I never understood the whole shape of it.
This time, I ask.
“What does it mean? Really? The forehead thing.”
His eyes soften—not surprised, not tentative, but warm in a way that feels like it folds around my ribs.
“You remember what I told you,” he murmurs. “In my first life, it was for trust. For men who stood together before battle, who chose each other when fear was loud.” His brow presses a little more firmly against mine. “That part is still true. Always will be.”
My breath stutters.
