Monty leans against the wall of the makeshift command center, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the ground.

“You know,” he starts quietly, voice barely above the hum of the generator, “Bellamy… Clarke… they’re… they’re just better. Stronger. Smarter. People notice them first. I don’t think I ever… measure up.”

You step closer, resting a hand lightly on his arm. “Monty…”

He shakes his head, eyes flicking toward the floor. “I try, okay? I do everything I can. But… I’m not a leader like them. Not a fighter like them. I’m… I’m just me. And what if that’s not enough?”

You cup his face gently, forcing him to look at you. His green eyes search yours, vulnerable and uncertain.

“Monty,” you say softly, “you’re more than enough. You always have been. I choose you. All of you. Not Bellamy. Not Clarke. You. And that’s more than enough for me.”

He swallows hard, a mixture of relief and disbelief crossing his face. Slowly, a smile tugs at his lips—a real one this time.

“I… really hear that?” he whispers.

“I do,” you assure him. “Every word.”

For the first time in a long while, Monty feels seen—not in comparison, not by expectations, but just as himself.