26. Pivotal Decision 2 #2
His relief steals the air from the room. He slides the ring onto my finger with a kind of reverence that makes my heart constrict, then pulls me into his arms. His breath shakes against my neck.
“You scared me for a second,” he murmurs.
“You scare me all the time,” I whisper back. “That’s how I know it matters.”
He huffs a soft, emotional laugh and kisses me—slow, grateful, grounding. Not an escape. A choice.
He presses his forehead to mine. “We’re going to be okay.”
“We’ll have to work for it,” I say.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “And I’m in.”
His hands hold my waist like he’s afraid I’ll fade out of frame. This isn’t the end of uncertainty. It’s the moment we stop pretending uncertainty means we’re failing. It’s the moment we choose each other anyway.
And for the first time in weeks, the knot inside my chest loosens—not because everything is suddenly solved, but because we’re finally standing in the same truth, facing the same direction.
Together. Reid finally leaves the room long enough to call his parents back, which gives me a few minutes to breathe.
My phone keeps lighting up with texts from Hazel, Iris, Eric, even a group chat I forgot I was in.
I silence everything and sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the ring on my finger.
The weight of it isn’t heavy, but the meaning is.
We chose each other—fully, deliberately.
But commitment doesn’t erase the uncertainty outside these walls, and part of me knows we’re stepping into something bigger than either of us has dealt with before.
The apartment is quiet when Reid walks back in. He closes the door behind him like he’s trying not to disturb the air. His shoulders drop the second he sees me. He crosses the room slowly and stops in front of me, tracing his thumb along my cheek.
“Still here?” he murmurs.
“I’m here,” I say, and it comes out gentler than I expect.
Something shifts between us—an exhale after too much tension.
He leans down and kisses me, slow enough that my breath catches.
I grab the front of his shirt and pull him closer, kissing him back, letting everything that’s been building between us settle into motion.
I’m the one who climbs into his lap. I don’t rush it.
I kiss him again, softer than before, like I’m relearning the shape of his mouth.
He slides his hands up my back and waits for me to set the pace.
I pull off his shirt carefully, like the moment deserves intention.
He lifts mine with the same kind of patience, watching my face the entire time. This isn’t frantic or apologetic.
It’s connection, chosen willingly after everything we just laid bare. When he lays me back on the bed, it feels like the world shrinks to something manageable. He kisses me again, deeper this time, his fingers tracing the line of my waist. I hook my knee around his hip and pull him closer.
He moves slowly, giving me time to feel every shift, every inch, every breath.
When he pushes into me, my hands grip his shoulders, grounding myself in the warmth of him and the truth that we’re choosing this together—not blindly, not like kids pretending the world can’t touch us, but as adults who know it can and still want this anyway.
We don’t rush. He holds my gaze, fingers laced with mine against the sheets, and the intimacy feels heavier than the physical movement. I kiss him again and again, trying to memorize the way he feels in this moment—certain, steady.
When we come apart, I bury my face in his neck and breathe him in, letting his arms wrap tight around me.
For a few seconds, everything settles into something quiet and warm.
Later, I lie on my side while he sleeps next to me, his hand resting over mine, the ring catching the dim light.
I love him. I want him. I chose this. But the question I can’t shake is whether love and commitment are enough to carry the weight we’re about to take on. The next afternoon, we tell my family.
Mom doesn’t scream. She doesn’t throw anything or storm out. She just sits there at the kitchen table, hands folded, eyes steady on the ring like it’s a set of coordinates she has to decipher. Reid squeezes my hand under the table, and I try to draw strength from it.
Mom finally looks up, and her voice is calm when she speaks. “You’re young, Amelia. You already have a son. You’re working full-time. You haven’t even figured out who you are yet.”
My throat tightens. “I know who I am.”
“Maybe,” she says. “But you haven’t had the time to decide what you want for yourself—not as a mother, not as a partner… as you.”
Reid starts to say something, but she lifts a hand gently. “This isn’t about him. I like him. I think he loves you. But marriage is work. It’s sacrifice. It’s years of figuring out who you are without losing the relationship along the way.”
Destiny leans back against the counter, arms folded. “Mom’s not wrong,” she says quietly. “I love Reid, but… you and he have been sprinting since you were teenagers. Nobody’s asking you to run faster.”
Iris, sitting on the floor with Liam, shakes her head. “They’re in love. Let them be happy. People get married all the time at their age.”
Mom gives Iris a tired smile. “They can love each other without marrying today.” She looks at me again, softer this time. “You don’t have to rush into another life-changing decision just because the first one forced you to grow up fast.”
The words land harder than I expect. I’d imagined her hugging me. Crying. Asking about dates and dresses. Instead, I feel like I’m sitting in the center of a cross-examination. Reid shifts beside me, guilt flickering across his face, but this isn’t his battle to fight.
I take a breath. “I hear you,” I say. “But I’m not rushing this. We’re choosing this.”
Mom studies me for a long moment, expression unreadable. “I hope that’s true,” she says finally. “Because I don’t want to watch you lose yourself trying to hold everything together.”
When we leave, the air outside feels colder.
Reid reaches for my hand, lacing our fingers together carefully, like he’s worried I’ll pull away.
I hold on tighter instead, but the truth is sitting in the back of my mind—heavy, unsteady, louder than before.
The ring is warm against my skin. The fear is warmer.
And even though we’re walking side by side, the path ahead suddenly feels more complicated than ever.