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"Thanks for believing me."

I swallow.

"Always."

After he disappears down the hallway, the house becomes quiet. Too quiet. Rhett and I remain standing there. Both of us exhausted. Both of us avoiding the same conversation. The same memories. The same pull.

"You should sleep too," I say.

"So should you."

"I was here first."

A small smile appears. The first genuine one I've seen from him in days.

"There you are."

I look away. Because that smile still affects me. Because 15 years haven't erased everything. Because maybe they were never supposed to.

The cottage settles around us. Sayer is asleep. The equipment is running. There is a fragile moment where nothing is actively trying to destroy us. And that creates its own kind of danger.

Because when the world stops ending…

You remember what you lost.

I look at Rhett—really look at him—and see the same exhaustion I feel, the same ache, the same desperate attempt to hold the world together with sheer willpower.

"I never stopped," he says quietly.

My breath catches. "Stopped what?"

"Loving you."

The confession lands like a physical blow. 15 years of silence, of absence, of wondering what I did wrong, and he's standing here telling me he never stopped.

"Rhett—"

"I know." He holds up a hand, then lets it fall. "I know I have no right. I know I broke us. I know you have every reason to hate me."

"I don't hate you." The admission slips out. "I tried. God, I tried."

He steps closer. Close enough that I can smell him—wood smoke and something uniquely Rhett, something that hasn't changed in 15 years. Close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way his pulse beats in his throat.

"Tell me to walk away," he says, his voice rough. "Tell me to go to my room and pretend this isn't happening. Tell me, Carys, and I will."

I should. Every logical part of my brain knows I should. We have a son to protect. There are monsters in the shadows and answers we don't have.

But I'm so tired of being strong. So tired of carrying everything alone.

I reach out and touch his chest. His heart hammers against my palm.

"Stay," I whisper.

That's all it takes. His mouth crashes against mine, and it's like no time has passed and like all the time in the world has passed simultaneously. He tastes the same—coffee and something sweet—and he kisses like he used to, like I'm the only thing anchoring him to earth. His hands come up to frame my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones, and I realize I'm shaking.

"Carys," he breathes against my lips. "Tell me this is real."

I answer by pulling him closer, by sliding my hands under his shirt and feeling the heat of his skin, the solid reality of him. He groans and lifts me, and I wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me toward the stairs.