The question, "Do you still love Iris?", didn't just break the silence; it detonated the careful containment I'd maintained for weeks. I saw the desperate need for clarity in Ava's eyes, and I knew a simple verbal assurance wasn't enough.
It would be meaningless corporate fluff, easily dismissed. She needed me to shatter the physical boundaries I had so religiously enforced.
My hand was still hovering over my coffee cup, but my mind was already executing the tactical shift. I looked down at her, at the small, brave curve of her mouth, and the terror of nearly losing her flooded me again.
"No," I said, the word rough and immediate, carrying the weight of finality.
"I don't."
I pushed away from the counter, moving with controlled speed. I was beside her wheelchair instantly, my focus absolute. I placed my hands on the arms of the chair.
"The contract is the past, Ava," I stated, locking my gaze on hers. "The terms are obsolete."
