Adam (POV)
Seeing Alice with another man is not a good experience for me.
The feeling hits unexpectedly—sharp and unsettling. I don't like it at all. It's not just jealousy; it's something deeper, more instinctive. I've never liked sharing the things that matter to me, and she matters more than I ever anticipated.
She is mine.
The thought itself surprises me. I've always believed I was rational, controlled, untouched by such raw instincts. But seeing her with someone else awakens something primal inside me—something people might call an alpha male instinct. Still, beneath that possessiveness is fear. Fear of losing her. Fear that what we're building might slip away before it fully forms.
But I don't want to scare Alice.
She's still healing. Still learning to trust happiness again. I can't let my intensity or jealousy burden her. She's innocent in this—whatever she shared with that man belongs to her past, a past I wasn't part of.
So I do the only thing I know how to do.
I walk away.
I leave because I don't trust myself to speak without letting my emotions spill over. I leave because I don't want my anger—misplaced and unfair—to hurt her. I reach my car, gripping the door handle tightly, trying to calm the storm inside me.
That's when I feel arms wrap around me from behind.
Alice.
Her hold is tight, desperate, trembling. All the anger inside me vanishes instantly. I turn around and see her—crying, broken, clinging to me like she's afraid I'll disappear.
My heart tightens painfully.
I pull her into my arms and hug her tightly, as if letting go might shatter her. She buries her face against my chest, crying freely now. I rest my chin on her head, holding her until her breathing slowly steadies.
"I'm here," I whisper. "I'm not going anywhere."
When she finally pulls back, I take her face gently in my hands and look into her eyes. Her eyes have always spoken the truth, even when words failed her.
"I was scared," she says softly. "I thought you were leaving me."
"I wasn't leaving you," I reply quietly. "I was trying not to hurt you."
She swallows, gathering courage—and then she says the words that change everything.
"I love you, Adam."
My eyes fill instantly. I don't stop the tears. I don't want to. Because in that moment, pride means nothing.
"I love you too," I say, my voice steady but full. "More than I ever thought I could love someone."
Her smile—soft, tearful, real—lights something inside me I didn't know was missing. Seeing her happiness feels surreal, like the world finally aligns into something that makes sense.
I don't hesitate anymore.
"I can't imagine a future without you," I tell her. "I don't want a home that doesn't have you in it. I don't want days where you aren't beside me."
She listens quietly, eyes wide.
"Alice," I continue, my heart pounding, "I don't want this to be temporary. I want you in my life—always. Will you be my wife?"
For a moment, time stands still.
Then she nods.
Yes.
That single answer fills me with a peace I've never known. I pull her into my arms again, laughing softly, overwhelmed with gratitude. We stay like that for a while, wrapped in certainty, wrapped in us.
We talk about our parents next—about doing things the right way. Since we're already in her hometown, I ask her to take me to her house first. She hesitates, nervous, unsure—but eventually agrees.
On the way, she tells me about her family—her hardworking parents, their struggles, their values. And honestly, none of it matters to me in the way society expects it to.
Background doesn't matter.
Status doesn't matter.
All I need is Alice.
When we reach her home, her parents welcome me warmly. There's caution, yes—but also trust. They listen. They watch their daughter. And when they see the certainty in her eyes, they agree.
They trust Alice's choice.
And I respect them deeply for that.
As I sit there with her family, I realize something important—
This isn't just love.
This is belonging.
And for the first time in my life, I know exactly where I want to be.
With Alice. Always.