She won’t come inside.

Barefoot on the porch, arms wrapped around herself, wearing one of my shirts like it’s the only thing holding her together. It’s cold, but she doesn’t seem to care.

“I know what you’re thinking,” I say. “And it’s not real.”

Her jaw tightens. “You don’t know that.”

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. We’ve done this before. Too many times. I know how it goes—if I push too hard, she’ll snap. If I don’t push enough, she’ll slip too far.

“I know you’re scared,” I say carefully. “But you need to come inside.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

Her eyes snap to mine, sharp and burning. “You don’t get it, Eli.”

I step forward, closing the space between us. “I do.” My voice is lower now, softer. “I always do.”

Something flickers in her expression. I don’t know if it’s anger or exhaustion or both. She hates when I do this—remind her of what we are, what we agreed to, what I promised her that day in front of the courthouse when I signed my name next to hers and swore I wouldn’t leave.

“I’m not a child,” she says, voice shaking.

“I never said you were.”

“Then stop treating me like one.”

I exhale slowly. “And if I don’t?”

She glares at me, a challenge. “Then I’ll leave.”

It’s an empty threat. She’s tried before. She always comes back. Because no one else waits her out. No one else chases her down at three in the morning. Just me.

I step closer, my voice quiet. “Then leave.”

She swallows, eyes flickering with something like betrayal. I don’t mean it. Not really. But she needs to hear it—needs to know I’m not keeping her here.

She can leave. She just won’t.

Because no one else will chase her down at three in the morning. No one else will sit with her through the aftermath. No one else will stand on this porch and wait her out.

Just me.

And she hates it. And she needs it. And I’ll keep doing it until she stops fighting me.

She shivers. I catch her wrist before she pulls away. “Come inside.”

She doesn’t answer. But she doesn’t resist when I guide her back through the door, either.