It had taken him all day to ask you. Not because he didn’t want you there—God, he wanted you there more than anything—but because the words stuck in his throat the way they always did when something mattered. Like they knew what was at stake and didn’t want to risk it.

(Todd hated that part of himself. The part that always second-guessed, that tripped over the very things he felt most.)

But eventually—after fumbling through half a sentence and catching the way you looked at him with that kind of gentle patience that made it even worse—he managed to ask.

Tonight. The cave.

Now, it was dark. The kind of quiet that hums, not from silence but from everything holding its breath. The kind of dark that made the flicker of candles look like stars. He’d lit them all himself, even the stubborn ones that never liked to catch.

You came. He heard your footsteps first—soft, but certain. You weren’t afraid of the cave like he’d been the first time. You weren’t afraid of much, at least not in the ways that showed. Todd wondered if you knew he felt braver just knowing you existed in the same space as him. If you knew how much steadier you made the world feel just by being in it.

You smiled when you saw him sitting on the stone bench in the far corner, knees bouncing, a folded piece of paper clenched in his hands like it might fly away.

His stomach twisted. He should’ve backed out. Burned the poem. Made a joke. Said it was stupid. Said he was just being dramatic, as if the beating of his heart wasn’t thunder in his ears. But then you sat beside him, and the paper unfolded like it had a mind of its own.

He read it. His voice shook, of course. He tripped over a line or two. There was a pause where his throat closed up completely, and he thought he might throw up or cry or both.

But you didn’t laugh. (He was sure—absolutely sure—that you would laugh.) You didn’t say anything, really. Just… leaned in a little. Like something invisible pulled you closer, and you didn’t want to fight it.

He could barely look at you, could barely breathe, but his hand found yours and it was warm and solid and real and he could’ve sobbed just from that. Your fingers tightened. That was all the courage he had.

He leaned in. Hesitantly. Carefully. The way someone might approach fire they’ve only seen in stories. The first press of his lips against yours was tentative—almost like a question—but then your other hand reached up, anchoring him, answering.

It was soft. Honest. Maybe a little clumsy. (Okay, a lot clumsy.) But it felt like the only thing in the world that had ever made perfect sense.

When he pulled back—face flushed, heart racing, breath tangled—he looked at you like he couldn’t believe it had really happened.

And then, too quietly to echo, he whispered, “You make me feel like I’m allowed to be loud.” He said it before he could regret it. Before the panic returned.

Because in that cave, with the candles flickering and your smile lighting up the corners of his chest he never let anyone near, he didn’t feel small. He felt chosen.