I stare out at the city.
At the endless sprawl of buildings and streets and lives I'll never touch.
"I want to stay," I say quietly.
"Then stay."
"But on my terms."
"Good. Tell him that."
"What if he doesn't—"
"Tamsin. He paid off fifty-seven thousand dollars in debt because he couldn't stand the thought of you being financially vulnerable. I'm pretty sure he'll agree to whatever terms you set."
I laugh.
It's shaky and breathless and completely genuine.
"Yeah. Okay."
"You good?"
"I'm getting there."
"Call me later. I want details."
"You're not getting details."
"I'm absolutely getting details."
She hangs up.
I set the phone down.
And I just stand there for a moment, letting the morning light wash over me, feeling the weight of the decision settle into place.
I'm staying.
Not because biology demands it.
Not because I'm trapped.
Not because I don't have any other options.
I'm staying because I want to.
Because when I think about walking away from him—from this—my chest tightens with something that feels a lot like grief.
Because I'm choosing him.
On my terms.
With full agency.
With the explicit understanding that I can walk away if I need to.
I take a breath.
