His hands settle at my waist, steady and warm. “I’m done hedging.”
The relief that moves through me isn’t dramatic. It’s grounding.
Later that evening, when he tells me to get dressed up and won’t explain why, I don’t argue. I need something that isn’t pure strategy to compel me. Something that feels like a choice made for joy rather than survival.
LUKE
The restaurant hasn’t changed.
The lighting is still low enough to soften everything. The music still hums just under conversation level. When we first came here, we were pretending to be friends. Tonight, there’s no pretending left.
She looks different. Not lighter. But resolved. There’s a steadiness in her posture that wasn’t there months ago.
The champagne arrives, and she laughs when the cork pops. The sound cuts through the tension that has lived under our skin for weeks.
I let the toast linger longer than usual.
“To you,” I say. “For choosing not to hide.”
Her eyes shine, but she doesn’t look fragile. She looks focused.
I don’t rush the next part. I don’t act on impulse. I let myself feel the weight of what I’m about to do.
Then I stand.
There’s a subtle shift in the room when someone makes a decision that can’t be undone. Conversations lower without people realizing why.
I kneel slowly, not for spectacle, but because it conveys a deliberate, weighed, and calculated move. The decision I’ve made wasn’t achieved lightly or without considering every angle, every possible outcome, or the seriousness of it.
“Andi,” I say, holding her gaze, “I’m not asking you this because everything is easy. I’m asking you because it isn’t. I don’t want to stand beside you halfway. I don’t want to be the man who stays only when it’s comfortable.”
I open the box.
“I want to build something that doesn’t flinch… that doesn’t hesitate.”
Her hand trembles as it rises to her mouth. Tears gather, but she’s smiling through them.
“I don’t know what the next few months look like,” I continue. “I know they won’t be quiet. But I know I don’t want to face them from across a room.”
For a second, she just stares at me, and I can see her processing everything at once—the investigation, the interview, the youth center, the headlines.
Then she exhales, and the word comes out unfiltered.
“Yes.”
The relief that hits me isn’t loud. It’s anchoring.
When I slide the ring onto her finger, it feels less like a grand gesture and more like alignment. Like drawing a line in the sand in full daylight.
The applause around us barely registers.
Outside, the October air is crisp and clean. She looks down at the ring once, then up at me.
“You understand this makes you more visible,” she says quietly.
“I was already standing next to you,” I reply. “Might as well make it permanent.”
She smiles, and for the first time in days, her expression isn’t guarded.
