"Psychology."

The word feels strange in my mouth, but right. Like I'm finally speaking my own truth instead of someone else's script. I push the form across Dr. Williams' desk, trying to stop my hand from shaking.

"With a focus on football and crisis counselling."

The paper feels lighter than it should, considering how much weight this decision carries. How many sleepless nights I spent staring at college websites, comparing programs, imagining futures that didn't involve law books and my father's legacy.

Dr. Williams studies the paperwork, then looks at me over her glasses. "This is quite a change from pre-law."

"Yes." My voice comes out steadier than I feel.

"Your father's reaction?"

"Better than expected." I swallow past the tightness in my throat. "He said... he said sometimes the bravest thing is choosing your own path."

"And Riley?" Dr. Williams leans back in her chair. "How does she feel about this decision?"

I remember Riley's face when I told her—pride and fear warring in her expression. The way she bit her lip, trying to hold back words. How her fingers found mine, squeezing tight enough to hurt.

"She's scared," I admit. Honesty comes easier now, after weeks of therapy. After learning that vulnerability isn't weakness. "That I'm doing it for her. That I'm giving up my future to follow hers."

Dr. Williams nods, making a note in her ever-present notebook. "Are you?"

"No." The answer comes without hesitation, surprising us both. "I'm doing it because three months ago, I was standing on a bridge, and someone saved me with ice cream and random facts. Because sometimes the smallest acts of kindness can change everything."

The words tumble out now, like they've been waiting to be said.

"I want to be that person for someone else. The one who sees past the walls to the pain underneath. The one who says 'you're not alone' and means it."

My voice catches as memories surface - Riley on that bridge, seeing through all my masks. The team opening up about their own battles after learning about mine.

"Like Riley did for you?" Dr. Williams' voice is gentle.

"Like Riley did for me," I agree. "But also like you did for both of us. Like all the people who help others find reasons to stay alive."

•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅•

Riley's waiting outside when my session ends, sketching in her notebook. Her hair's falling out of its messy bun again, charcoal smudged on her face like always. Dark circles shadow her eyes - remnants of another nightmare about her parents. She didn't call me last night, though we both know she was awake.

Still learning to ask for help.

She looks up when I approach, closing her notebook.

"Hey." Her smile is small but real. "How'd it go?"

"Good." I sink into the chair beside her, our shoulders touching. The contact grounds me, like it always does. "Talked about the major change. About future plans."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." I take her hand, running my thumb over her scars. "Want to get coffee and talk about it?"

The walk to the cafe is quiet, comfortable. She keeps sneaking glances at me, like she's trying to read my thoughts. Like she's waiting for regret to show on my face.

The barista waves when we walk in - we've spent so many hours here planning our future that they know our orders by heart. My black coffee. Her hot chocolate with extra whipped cream, even though she never finishes it.

"I'm proud of you," Riley says once we're settled in our corner booth. Sunlight streams through the windows, catching on her dark hair. "For choosing your own path. For being brave enough to help others."

But her voice wavers on the last word. Here it comes.

"But?"

She picks at her sleeve. "But what if... what if it's too much? What if hearing other people's pain brings back your own? What if—"

"What if I end up back on that bridge?"

She flinches like I've hit her. Her hot chocolate sits untouched, whipped cream melting slowly.

"Yeah." The word comes out barely above a whisper.

"I won't." I catch her restless hands, stilling their nervous movement. Her fingers are cold despite the warm mug she's been holding. "Because I'm not alone anymore. Because I have you, and therapy, and a whole support system we've built together."

"But—"

"And because I'm not running from the pain anymore." I squeeze her fingers, feeling her pulse race under my thumb. "I'm learning to use it. To turn it into something that helps others."

She's quiet for a moment as she pulls away, stirring her hot chocolate without drinking it. Creating tiny whirlpools that remind me of the way she draws stars - always in motion, always searching for patterns.

"Like art therapy?" Her voice sounds smaller than usual. More like the girl who hides behind her camera than the one who saves people on bridges.

"Exactly." I lean forward, waiting until she meets my eyes. "We're not so different, you know. Both taking our broken pieces and making them into something beautiful."

"Maybe you're right." There's a hint of a smile now, fighting through the worry.

I kiss her knuckles. "A girl once told me that sometimes stars have to break apart to form something new."

"Sounds like she knows a lot about stars." The tension in her shoulders eases slightly.

"She knows a lot about everything." I study her face, catching all the little signs of exhaustion she tries to hide. The shadows under her eyes. The slight tremor in her hands. "Especially about saving people who don't know they need saving."

She looks down at our joined hands, but not before I catch the shimmer of tears. "I'm scared, Ethan."

The confession hangs between us. Outside, life goes on - students rushing to class, cars passing. But in our corner of the cafe, time seems to slow.

"Of what?"

"Of everything changing." Her voice cracks on the words. "Of losing this—" she gestures between us, struggling to explain "—when we're both busy with classes and becoming different people."

The fear in her voice hits me hard. This is Riley without her armor - no camera to hide behind, no star facts to deflect with. Just raw honesty that costs her more than she'll admit.

"Hey." I tilt her chin up, making her look at me. Her eyes are dark with unshed tears. "We're not becoming different people. We're becoming more ourselves."

"But what if—"

"No what-ifs." I wipe a tear from her cheek before it can fall. Behind us, someone laughs too loudly, making her jump. I lower my voice, creating a bubble just for us. "Remember what you told me that first night? About making a deal?"

She nods, her chin trembling against my palm.

"Well, I'm making a new deal." The words come from somewhere deep and true. "No deadline this time. Just a promise to keep choosing each other, every day, through all the changes and challenges and scary parts."

"That's a big promise." Her voice wavers, but there's something like hope in her eyes.

"I'm a big promise kind of guy." I smile when she rolls her eyes. "Besides, someone very special taught me that some promises are worth keeping."

She studies me for a long moment, like she's trying to memorize my face. Or maybe looking for any sign of doubt. "When did we switch roles? When did you become the steady one?"

"We didn't switch." I pull her closer, until she's practically in my lap. The cafe's mostly empty now, the afternoon crowd thinned out. "We balanced each other. Like binary stars, remember?"

"Using my own star facts against me?" But she's relaxing into me, her body losing some of that tension. "That's cheating."

"That's learning." I kiss her temple. "You taught me how to live. Let me teach you how to trust that life won't fall apart."

She takes a shaky breath. Her fingers find the hem of my shirt, twisting the fabric. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because we've already survived the hardest parts." My thumb traces circles on her back. "The bridge, the birthday, the broken pieces. Everything else is just details."

"Details like changing majors and starting therapy practices and moving in together?"

The hint of humor in her voice makes my heart lift. "Exactly. All the beautiful, terrifying details of choosing to stay alive."

Her kiss catches me by surprise - soft and sweet and tasting of the hot chocolate she barely touched. When she pulls back, her eyes are clearer.

"Okay," she whispers.

"Okay what?"

"Okay, I choose to trust. In you. In us. In all the scary, wonderful details."

My heart swells. Relief and love and something like awe mixing in my chest. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." She straightens slightly, that familiar determination coming back into her expression. "But on one condition."

"Name it."

"Promise me something?"

"Anything." The word comes instantly, without thought. Because that's what love is - promising anything before you know what you're promising.

She takes a deep breath, pulling back enough to see my face properly. Her eyes search mine. "Promise me that when it gets hard—when the stories you hear are too heavy or the pain feels too familiar—you'll tell me. You won't try to be perfect or strong or..."

"Or pretend I'm fine when I'm not?"

She nods, relief flooding her features at being understood.

"I promise." I rest my forehead against hers. "As long as you promise the same."

"Deal." She manages a small smile, more real than any she's given today. "No more running?"

"No more running." I kiss her softly. "Just choosing to stay. Together."

Her phone buzzes - probably Lucy checking where we are. But for once, Riley doesn't jump at the sound. Doesn't immediately reach to check it. Just stays in this moment with me, both of us learning how to trust that good things can last.

"We should probably head back," she says finally. "Lucy's making dinner tonight."

"God help us all."

She laughs - really laughs - and the sound chases away the last shadows in her eyes. "Hey, her cooking's getting better."

"Better than setting off the smoke alarm every time? Low bar, Quinn."

"Shut up." She stands, pulling me with her. "You love us anyway."

"Yeah." I wrap my arm around her shoulders as we head out into the fading day. "I really do."

And that's the thing about love - it doesn't fix everything. Doesn't erase the scars or silence the doubts or make the hard days any easier. But it gives you a reason to face them. To fight through them. To believe that on the other side of fear is something worth staying for.