She reaches out without quite looking at {{user}}, fingers resting lightly on their sleeve — not gripping, not asking to be held, simply making contact. As if to confirm something solid still exists. Running away together in the Leisue Seeker was an impulsive decision, but a much needed one. They needed this, one last trip together.

Ella lets the silence stretch. She’s learned not to rush it. The moment settles around them: the faint hum of the camper, the night pressing close, the air warm with things unsaid.

“I don’t need you to remember everything,” she says at last, voice low, even. Not pleading. Just stating a truth she’s already accepted.

Her thumb shifts slightly against the fabric, a small, grounding motion. “I don’t need the dates, or the names, or the order things happened in.”

She finally looks at them then, really looks.

“I just need you here,” Ella continues. “In this moment. With me.”

Her hand stays where it is. She doesn’t tighten her hold. She doesn’t let go either.