She tilts her head slightly, her forehead pressing against my chest like she’s hiding. Or maybe like she’s trying to believe me.

“You think it’ll be easy?”

I let out a quiet breath, my fingers tracing slow circles against the small of her back. “No. It’ll be hard. Too fucking hard. But I want to learn how to stay. How to stop being afraid of loving someone . . . and letting them love me.”

If love is meant to be something we fight for, something we bleed for, then maybe—just maybe—she’s the battle worth losing everything for.

Maybe that’s not what I should say. She doesn’t have the luxury of time, of ease, of making this choice on her terms. Winston’s coming, and no matter how much I want to keep her safe in a crystal box, that reality isn’t changing.

She doesn’t need that reminder. Not now. Right now, she just needs to know she’s not alone.

“But we have to focus on the now.”

She snorts. “The now sucks, and what if he wins?”

I tilt my head down, my lips brushing against the top of hers before I can think better of it. “You’re not doing any of this alone. I’m with you, and he’ll have to kill me before he takes you.”

Her breath hitches. Just slightly.

And then—she leans in, hugging me.

Not too tight. Just enough that I feel it. Just enough that I know she’s making this choice.

Her hands slip higher, her fingers tracing over my shoulders, slow and tentative, like she’s memorizing the shape of me. And, fuck, I feel it everywhere. The heat of her touch, the slow unraveling of the distance between us.

I tighten my hold, my nose brushing hers as I tip my head down, waiting—giving her the space to decide. “Blythe.”

She blinks up at me, her pupils wide, her lips parting like she’s on the edge of something she doesn’t know how to name. Then, quietly, like it’s just for me, she says, “Kiss me.”

And I do.

I don’t hesitate, don’t overthink it. I just close the space between us, my mouth pressing against hers, slow at first, testing, waiting for her to push me away.

She doesn’t.

Instead, she presses closer, her hands sliding up my neck, fingers threading into my hair. And that’s all it takes for me to sink into her, for restraint to slip, for my hands to tighten around her waist, pulling her against me. Her lips part, a quiet sound escaping—something wrecked, something raw—and, fuck, it does something to me.

I deepen the kiss, slow but unrelenting, drinking her in like I can make this last forever. Like if I kiss her the right way, she’ll stay. She’ll love me. She’ll accept me as hers.