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"For the other shoe to drop. For you to realize you made a mistake."

He laughed—a wet, broken sound. And for the first time that week, he took her hand. Not as a lover. As a lifeline. Love is not a noun. It is not a feeling. It is a verb. It is the continuous, often unglamorous, radical act of choosing to see another person fully—their light, their shadow, their boredom, their glory—and saying, "Yes. You. Always you."

"Yes," she said. "That's the terrifying part, isn't it?"

She came to stand beside him, not touching, but close enough to feel his heat. "For what?"