"We don't have to fade."
"Everyone fades, Owen. That's what people do." She's not looking at me, focusing intently on arranging the tea bags in the mugs. "I've watched it happen my whole life. People say they'll keep in touch, they'll visit, they'll call. And then they don't."
"I will."
"You say that now—"
"No, Ivy. Listen to me." I move close enough that she has to look at me. "I've spent fifteen years thinking about you. Fifteen years comparing every woman I met to a memory of you. Do you really think I'm going to just fade away now that I've actually gotten to know you? Now that I know the reality is even better than the memory?"
Her eyes are shining with unshed tears. "You don't know that yet. You've known me for four hours."
"And every one of those hours has confirmed what I already knew." I reach up, gently brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "That you're kind, and thoughtful, and funny in this quiet way that catches me off guard. That you see beauty in small things, like autumn leaves and good books and probably this kettle that's about to whistle."
As if on cue, the kettle starts to whistle. Ivy turns off the stove and pours water into the mugs, and I watch her hands steady as she focuses on the task.
"Chamomile," she says, handing me a mug. "It's supposed to be calming."
"Do you need calming?"
"I need something." She leads me back to the living room, and we sit on the couch, her on one end, me on the other.
We sip our tea in silence for a moment. It's good. Floral and soothing, exactly what chamomile should be.
"On your spreadsheet," I say. "What's in the pro column?"
She's quiet for so long I think she's not going to answer. Then: "You."
My heart stops. "Me?"
"Everything about you is in the pro column. The way you look at me. The way you talk about your patients like they're people instead of just cases. The way you kept my book for fifteen years." She's staring into her tea like it holds answers. "The way you make me feel seen."
"And the cons?"
"Fear, mostly. Fear that I'm not enough. Fear that you'll realize you built me up too much in your head and the real me is disappointing. Fear that I'll fall completely in love with you—" She cuts herself off, eyes widening like she can't believe she just said that.
I set my mug down on the coffee table. "Ivy."
"I didn't mean—"
"Will fall? Or already have?"
She closes her eyes. "I can't answer that."
"Why not?"
"Because if I say it out loud, it becomes real. And if it's real, it can hurt me."
I move closer, taking the mug from her hands and setting it next to mine. "Look at me."
She does, reluctantly.
"I can't promise this will be easy, or that long distance won't be hard, or that we won't have moments where we question everything." I take her hands in mine. "But I can promise that I will try. Every single day, I will try to be worth the risk you're taking on me."
"Owen—"
"I'm in love with you, Ivy Rose. I have been since I was seventeen years old. And sitting here in your living room, drinking tea, seeing how you've built this beautiful life for yourself… I'm even more in love with you now." I squeeze her hands. "So, whatever you're afraid of, whatever's in that con column, I need you to know that I'm not going anywhere. Not this time."
She's crying now, tears sliding down her cheeks. "You can't just say things like that."
