My voice softens. “You left.”
Her eyes flicker. “I had to.”
“No. You chose to.”
That hits. I see it.
“I wasn’t risking you,” she says.
“And I wasn’t letting you do it alone.”
The silence shifts, heavier now, charged with everything we’re not saying.
“This isn’t just about you and me,” she says.
I step closer, close enough to feel her warmth. “No, it’s not. But don’t pretend like that’s not part of it.”
Her gaze searches mine like she’s looking for an escape. There isn’t one.
“There is no ‘you and me,’” she says quietly.
I shake my head. “Yeah… there is.”
Before she can argue, I close the distance. My hand comes up to her jaw, giving her time to pull away.
She doesn’t.
So I kiss her.
It’s not soft at first. It’s everything we’ve been holding back—fear, anger, relief—all crashing together. Her hands grip my shirt, pulling me closer like she’s done fighting it.
The kiss changes, slows, deepens. Less fight. More truth.
I rest my forehead against hers, breathing uneven. “Still think there’s no ‘you and me’?”
Her lips brush mine again, softer this time. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Make this harder than it already is.”
“It already is.”
Her hand presses against my chest, right over my heartbeat. “Jase…”
“I’m not walking away from this,” I tell her.
She searches my face. “You might have to.”
“No.”
Simple. Final.
She hesitates, then leans in again, and this time there’s no resistance. Just us. No running. No walls.
For the first time since all of this started, we stop fighting what’s between us.
Later
