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Blair takes it, and we walk toward the bench.

Our bench.

The one where she told me about Ben, New York and everything she survived. The one where she expected me to see her differently afterward.

I did.

I loved her more.

Blair stops beside it, her eyes moving from the bench to me.

“You remembered.”

“Of course I remembered.”

Her smile softens as I take both her hands. My heart starts beating like I’m seventeen years old again.

Fuck me.

“Dean?” she asks.

“I brought you here the first time because I wanted you to feel safe enough to tell me everything you thought might make me leave.”

Her eyes immediately fill with tears.

“Dean…”

“You told me who you were, what happened to you and what you were scared of.” I rub my thumbs over her knuckles. “Then you asked me, without actually asking, whether any of it changed how I saw you.”

A tear slips down her cheek, and I brush it away.

“It did.”

Her mouth trembles.

“It made me realize I’d never met anyone stronger.”

Blair shakes her head. “Don’t make me cry.”

“Bit late, baby.”

She laughs through her tears.

“I spent most of my life thinking I knew exactly what it was supposed to look like,” I continue. “Aspen. The garage. Hartwell. Keep things simple and everyone else out.”

I smile at her.

“Then you showed up in that fucking Kombi and wrecked every plan I had.”

“Sorry,” she whispers.

“Not even a little.”

Her smile breaks wider.

I reach into my pocket, and Blair’s breath catches.

“I don’t want you to stay because you’re scared to leave.” I open the box, and her hand flies to her mouth. “I want you to stay because this is the life you choose.”