His hand reaches, not to tug—but to rest over mine again—warm, steady, so much bigger than mine.
“Emmy.”
Just my name.
And somehow, it settles me more than a whole speech might.
“I want to make sure you know something,” he says, voice low. Measured. “Before anything else happens.”
I look up at him. Slowly.
His thumb brushes along the edge of my hand.
“You have a word,” he says. “If it ever feels too much. Too fast. Too anything.”
My chest goes still.
“You say it,” he adds. “And everything stops.”
I swallow. My voice barely makes it out.
“What is it?”
“Red.”
He says it like it means something.
Like it’s a lifeline, not a test.
“If you say it,” he murmurs, “we stop. Immediately. No questions. No frustration. Just me, holding you.”
My throat tightens.
I nod.
But something in me still hesitates. Still braces.
He squeezes my hand gently.
“You’re not powerless here, little one,” he says. “You’re mine. That means I protect you—even from this. Even from me.”
Something in me eases. Not completely.
But enough.
Because he saw it. Because he gave me a way out before I even asked for one.
And that? That feels like love.
My lips part. But I can’t bring myself to speak.
And he waits.
One more heartbeat.
Then he gently takes my hand. And I let him.
Because even though my legs feel unsteady, even though my chest is tight, there’s something in the way he moves—calm, unshakable—that makes it feel like all I have to do is follow.
