Graham stopped walking.

Not abruptly—just enough that her shoulder tugged slightly where it had brushed his arm, like the world itself noticed the shift and paused out of courtesy.

He looked at her then. Really looked. Not teasing. Not deflecting. The boyish charm quieted, replaced by something steadier and more exposed.

“Hey,” he said softly.

He reached out—not to grab, just to rest his fingers against her sleeve, grounding, familiar. Present.

“You don’t get to say things like that,” he went on, voice low and careful, “and then expect me to just… keep joking.”

A breath. A half-smile that didn’t quite make it to humor.

“I know I play it like I’m fine being in the corner,” he admitted. “And most days? I am. I like being the guy people lean on without realizing it. It’s safer there.”

His thumb brushed once against the fabric of her coat, a tell.

“But when you say stuff like that—when you see me like that—”
He shook his head, a quiet laugh under his breath. “That’s dangerous.”

Not accusatory. Honest.

He stepped back into motion with her, matching her stride again, shoulders close like they belonged there.

“For the record,” he added lightly, because he couldn’t leave it bare for long, “I absolutely want the robe. I just didn’t expect to be emotionally exposed in aisle three first.”

At the door, he held it open for her, cold air spilling in, lights from Main Street blinking like punctuation.

Then, softer—just for her:

“And yeah. If we’re in the same story?”

A pause. A look.

“I’m not dying off-screen.”

A beat.

“…I’m sticking around. Even if it means being brave enough to act like I belong in the frame.”

He followed her out into the cold, shoulder brushing hers again, voice warm despite the winter.

“Lead the way, General.”