She is reckless and defensive and sharp-tongued and utterly, devastatingly human. She cries when she is overwhelmed. She makes jokes when she is terrified. She wears shoes with cracked soles and eats ramen for dinner and works herself to exhaustion just to survive.
She is fragile.
She is temporary.
She is the single greatest threat to my carefully constructed emotional fortress.
And she is the only thing that has ever made me feel alive.
I open my eyes.
My reflection stares back at me. Massive. Ancient. Alone.
This is the choice.
I can stay here. I can let the stone-lock consume me. I can retreat into the safety of isolation and paranoia and eight centuries of survival instinct.
Or I can go to her.
I can choose trust despite the terror.
I can choose vulnerability despite the risk.
I can chooseher, even knowing that humans are fragile and temporary and that losing her will destroy me in ways I cannot even comprehend.
The mate-bond pulses.
Faint.
Strained.
But still there.
I take a breath.
And I make the choice.
Not because it is safe.
Not because it is logical.
Not because eight hundred years of experience tells me it is the right tactical decision.
But because I love her.
And love is not about safety.
It is about choosing connection despite the fear.
It is about trusting someone even when they make mistakes.
It is about being vulnerable enough to let someone hurt you, because the alternative—spending eternity alone—is so much worse.
I turn away from the window.
My left arm hangs useless at my side, but my right hand is steady. My wings unfurl slowly, testing their range of motion. The amber veins flicker—still orange, still warning, but no longer spreading.
I am going to her apartment.
