"Your dad is... cool," she says finally.
Henry lights up like he just won a medal. She waves once and disappears into the crowd, leaving Henry visibly buoyed, shoulders higher, grin firmly back in place.
"Hey, Dad, can I stay for a while?" Henry looks up longingly.
Arthur looks to Steve. Steve answers, "I will take care of Henry. Sorry, I mean, I will take care of Blue Hanging Light Boy."
"Great. Take a couple of the security team with you."
"Very good, sir."
"Yes!" Henry jumps. "Thank you, Dad!" He is already turning around and following after Jenny.
***
The drive home is quiet in the good way. Arthur's hand finds mine like it belongs there.
"Are you sure?" I ask softly, the question slipping out now that everything feels possible again. "About me."
He doesn't hesitate. "More sure than I was about that merger last year."
I snort. "That's not exactly romantic."
"It's devastatingly sincere," he replies.
I squeeze his hand. "Okay. But this time—no takesy-backsies."
He smiles, slow and certain. "More like takes-you-backsies."
Back at the house, nothing looks different. My boxes are still there. My sparkly clothes still hanging exactly where they were. My shoes still lined up like they're waiting for me to decide something. But it feels different. Warmer. Claimed. Arthur watches me take it in, uncertainty flickering just once.
I turn to him and smile.
"I'm not going anywhere."
Arthur kisses my temple, and wraps his arms around me. "You did agree to be my wife."
"For real this time."
"Forever."
***
Later, when Henry's asleep and the house has settled into its nighttime rhythm, Arthur and I sit on the couch with mugs of tea that neither of us are drinking. There's still so much to say. So much to rebuild. But the silence between us doesn't feel dangerous anymore.
"I need you to know something," Arthur says finally. His voice is quiet but certain. "When I said those things to you—I was trying to protect myself."
I look up.
"I know," I reply. "Fear makes us say stupid things."
"Not just fear," he admits. "Control. I've spent my entire adult life building systems that don't fail. When something doesn't fit neatly into that structure—"
"Like me," I interject.
He nods. "Like you. I panic. I remove the variable. I restore order." His hand finds mine on the couch between us.
I think about the last few days. About waking up alone. About how I kept reaching for my phone even when I knew he wouldn't call.
