I nodded.
His fingers brushed the strand back from my face and tucked it behind my ear with a tenderness that made my eyes sting.
Not because it was careful.
Because he had asked.
His hand lingered near my cheek, not touching now, just close enough for warmth.
“I don’t want to be your fire anymore,” he said.
The words were quiet.
No performance.
No tortured poetry, despite his promise.
I let him have it.
“Good,” I whispered.
“I don’t want to save you.”
“Good.”
“I don’t want to decide what’s best for you.”
“Finally.”
His mouth curved, but his eyes stayed serious.
“I don’t want to love you from a distance because it lets me feel noble without having to be brave.”
That one went deep.
The fair moved beneath us.
Laughter rose and disappeared into the wind.
Dylan looked out over the lights, then back at me.
“I just want to stay.”
My heart hurt.
Not the old way.
Not like breaking.
Like something scarred learning how to stretch.
“Then stay,” I said.
His eyes closed for half a second.
When he opened them, there was so much relief there I almost looked away.
Almost.
