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My throat closed.

“You did.”

His voice broke again.

“But it’s your name that echoes in my bones.”

The ribbon slipped from my fingers.

I let it fall.

Because we didn’t need it anymore.

Because we were already written.

I rose to my knees.

Lifted my hand.

Placed it on his chest.

Right over the place I had kissed once and called sacred.

His breath stopped.

Not held.

Given.

“You’ve been inside me since the fire,” I whispered.

“And I never left you.”

His eyes closed.

A tear slipped down.

He didn’t wipe it away.

And I didn’t name it.

Because this wasn’t confession.

It was recognition.

It was the vow without ritual.

The prayer without words.

The keeping without chains.

He opened his eyes.

And said:

“Then hollow me again. And this time… don’t let me leave.”

He didn’t beg.