Adam(POV)
After learning about my father's condition, I felt something inside me give way.
The man who had always been my anchor—unyielding, commanding, certain—was slipping beyond reach. And with him, the certainty of my own life. Saying yes to his last wish felt like betraying myself. Saying no felt like betraying him. There was no version of this night that didn't leave scars.
And yet, one truth refused to loosen its grip on me.
I would never stop loving Alice.
I returned to my room with a heart too heavy to carry. The door closed behind me with a soft click, and there she was—lying on my bed, curled gently on her side, breathing evenly. She looked so peaceful that it hurt. As if the world hadn't just asked me to choose between love and duty.
I sat beside her, watching the rise and fall of her chest. The simple act of being near her made my chest ache. I lay down carefully and drew her into my arms.
That was all it took.
The dam broke.
Tears came, hot and unstoppable, soaking into the pillow. I didn't try to be quiet. I couldn't. The weight of what I was about to lose pressed down until breathing felt like work.
She stirred.
Even half-asleep, she turned toward me, her arms wrapping around my waist like instinct had already decided for her. She held me tighter when she felt me shaking. She didn't ask questions. She didn't pull away.
She just held me.
That embrace saved me in ways I don't know how to explain.
When my breathing finally slowed, she lifted her head and cupped my face, her thumb brushing gently beneath my eyes. She kissed my forehead—slow, reassuring—and looked at me with eyes that seemed to understand without needing words.
In that moment, my love for her deepened beyond anything I thought possible.
"Adam," she whispered, waiting.
"My father… doesn't have much time," I said, the words scraping my throat. "He wants to see me married. Tomorrow."
She didn't move. She didn't interrupt.
"He wants it with someone else," I finished. "And I don't know how to fight him without losing him."
Silence filled the room, heavy and fragile.
I expected anger. Tears. A breaking point.
Instead, she reached for me.
"Stay with me," she said softly. "Just tonight."
Her request stunned me.
"There's something we never finished," she continued, her voice steady despite the storm around us. "You stopped before—because you cared. I want to choose it now. With you."
My heart clenched painfully.
"Why would you want this," I asked, barely holding myself together, "when we're standing on the edge of goodbye?"
She met my gaze without fear. "Because loving you was never a mistake. And I don't want my memories of us to feel unfinished."
I kissed her then.
Not rushed. Not desperate.
Slow. Aching. Full of everything I couldn't say.
She kissed me back with the same quiet certainty, her hands finding my shoulders, my neck—grounding me. We moved closer, bodies aligning naturally, as if this closeness had always been waiting for us.
I pulled her against me beneath the sheets. Our foreheads touched. Our breaths found the same rhythm. I traced gentle paths along her arm and back, not asking, not demanding—just listening to her response, to her trust.
She sighed softly and rested her head against my chest.
Time softened.
I kissed her temple. Her cheek. The corner of her mouth. She smiled faintly and whispered, "Don't leave me tonight."
"I won't," I promised. "Not tonight."
What followed wasn't rushed or careless. It was deliberate. Reverent. We let the world fall away and chose each other—fully, without fear. We explored the closeness we had denied before, guided by tenderness rather than urgency.
There was no confusion between us.
Only choice.
Only consent.
Only love.
Later, wrapped together in the quiet aftermath, she rested against me, her head on my shoulder, our bodies still warm from shared closeness. I traced slow circles on her back as she drifted into sleep, memorizing the feel of her, the truth of her weight in my arms.
She slept peacefully.
I did not.
I lay awake, staring into the dark, knowing this night would follow me for the rest of my life. Whatever came next—whatever duty demanded, whatever love would cost—this belonged to us.
She was mine.
And that made what I was about to do unbearable.
For once, I wanted to be greedy.
For once, I wanted to hold happiness and not let go—even if it destroyed me later.
I tightened my arms around her just slightly and pressed a kiss into her hair.
Praying—silently, desperately—that love alone might somehow be enough to save us.