Kate noticed the change before you said anything.

You were quieter. More careful. Like someone rehearsing a truth they weren’t sure they should tell.

It happened late—London quiet, rain tapping against the windows like a warning. You sat across from her at the kitchen table, hands folded, eyes fixed on a point just past her shoulder.

“You’re going to say something,” Kate said flatly. “I can tell.”

You looked at her then. Really looked.

“I care about you,” you said.

No joke. No deflection.

Kate didn’t smile. “That’s vague.”

“I know,” you replied. “So I’ll be specific.”

You took a breath. “I think about you when you’re not here. I worry when you don’t answer your phone. And I feel… steady when you’re in the room.”

Kate leaned back, studying you. “Those aren’t feelings. Those are habits.”

“Maybe,” you said. “Or maybe they started as feelings.”

She tilted her head. “Why now?” That was the question you hesitated on.

“I didn’t plan to say it tonight,” you admitted. “But I realized something.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “What?”

“If I didn’t tell you,” you said quietly, “it would turn into something worse.”

Silence stretched.

“That’s an odd way to reassure someone,” Kate said.

“I’m not trying to reassure you,” you replied. “I’m trying to be honest.”

Kate stood, pacing slowly. “You know I don’t do half-truths. If you’re telling me this because you want me, that’s one thing. If you’re telling me because you need me—”

“I don’t need you,” you interrupted gently. “I choose you.”

She stopped in front of you. “Those two things sound similar when someone’s lying.”