And it’s not the physical touch, or the emotional appeal, or the compliment, or the exacting list of back-and-forth rationale and justification. It’s all of the above, like the ceaseless tide wearing away at a rock until it finally crumbles into the sea. As Ness takes his hand, Stephen feels the moment that he gives in at last, and feels his reasoning falling away.

There’s a defeated sag to his shoulders, a twist of his mouth, his hand squeezing hers back once.

“Alright,” he says. Because he’d promised, too, that he would at least consider it if she gave it time. Didn’t rush it. Came back to him after a year. It’s sooner than planned, but all of his arguments against it have been punctured and meticulously deconstructed. “It’s your choice.”

And if anyone’s going to do it for her safely, of course it’s going to be him.

He always has to be the one holding the knife.