Silence stretches between us again.
But this one—
This one matters.
“I’ve worked with a lot of men,” she continues. “Good ones. Skilled. Controlled.”
Her eyes lock onto mine.
“But you…” she exhales slowly, “you don’t hesitate when it matters. And you don’t pretend not to feel things just to stay in control.”
That hits harder than I expect.
“I feel plenty,” I say.
“I know,” she replies.
A beat.
Then quieter—
“That’s why I trust you.”
There it is again.
Trust.
It shouldn’t mean this much.
It does.
“You don’t give that easily,” I say.
“No,” she admits.
“Then why now?”
Her fingers tighten slightly in my shirt.
“Because I think…” she hesitates, just for a second, “if I didn’t, I’d regret it.”
Something in my chest shifts.
Hard.
“You’re not the kind of woman who lives with regret,” I say.
“I don’t plan to start.”
I move closer without thinking.
Or maybe I’ve been thinking about it this whole time.
“You’re not just trusting me,” I say quietly. “You’re choosing me.”
Her breath catches.
“Yeah,” she whispers. “I am.”
