147. “Then marry me.”

147. “Then marry me.”
Isabelle Nash

The light in the room is low, but not dark. It’s the kind of dimness that feels like a shelter, like the world outside has been deliberately left on the other side of the door. The air is warm, filled with his scent—woody, metallic, clean in a way that only exists where there’s absolute control. In here, everything bears his mark: from the coarse bedsheet to the silent digital clock on the wall, counting the hours.
And even now, with my body weak, my throat dry, and my mind still caught between what’s real and what could have been, I know I’m in the safest place possible: Felix’s penthouse.
His presence is so strong it arrives before his touch — the warmth radiating from his body, sitting beside me, the way his hand holds mine: firm, but weightless. He doesn’t move much. Doesn’t speak more than necessary. But I know he hasn’t left. Not for a single minute.
And it’s when he takes a deep breath — the kind that comes before something important — that I slowly turn my eyes toward him. Seeing him there, so close, nearly undoes me because it’s him. Not as a boss, not as a monster, not as the man everyone fears — but as the only one who stayed.
“I thought I’d lost you,” he says. His voice comes out softer than usual, like he’s not talking to me, but to some part of himself that still needs to hear it aloud.
I try to speak, but I can’t. I squeeze his hand gently.
He feels it.
And goes on.
“It wasn’t just fear. It was panic. It was the fucking kind of despair I never knew I could feel. Because you were right there. And I couldn’t do a damn thing. Nothing.”
The words come out raw, unfiltered, and unframed. It’s not a speech — it’s a release. Full of everything: the rage he swallowed, the blood he spilled, the time he thought he’d lost with my breath no longer near his.
And when he falls silent, there’s nothing left in the room but the sound of our silence.
But this silence is different. Not uncomfortable. Not heavy. It’s the kind that only exists between people who’ve walked through hell and made it back together. He’s still holding my hand, like letting go might rip open everything it took so much to close.
His head drops for a second, his eyes slipping away from mine. And when he looks at me again, his gaze has changed. It’s raw. Unarmored. And maybe, for the first time since I met him, I see the whole man. No mask. No weight of reputation. Just him.
“You became my weakness,” he says, his voice still low but steady. “And that should scare me. But it doesn’t. Because the truth is… if you die, Isabelle… I die too. And not in some poetic sense. I mean it. I’d be done. Because you’re the one thing in this world I don’t know how to rebuild.”
I wasn’t expecting that. Not in those words. Not in that tone. Felix has always been the man of control, with measured speech and sharp eyes. But now he’s just a man — the man who sat at the edge of my bed, waiting for any sign of life to keep himself from falling apart.
My eyes burn.
“You’re not going to lose me,” I whisper, my voice hoarse, quiet, but mine. “I came back. I’m here.”
He blinks. Once. Then leans in — slowly — with a kind of intimacy that doesn’t ask for permission but honors the space.
“I’ve never loved anyone and never wanted anyone. Never needed to,” he says, resting his forehead against mine. “But you… You broke me completely. And even so, I don’t want to run from it.”
My breath stumbles. So does his.
My fingers still lack strength. But my will doesn’t. And it’s that will that lets me lift my hand just enough to touch his face. Just a touch. With the tips of my fingers. Like someone checking to see if something is truly real, his beard is thicker. His jaw was tense. His eyes… his eyes never stray from mine, not even for a second. There’s no rush. No fear of silence. Just the two of us — and whatever remains after the chaos.
“You’re not my weakness,” I say, voice low, aching, but steady. “You’re what reminds me who I am… even when I forget.”
He closes his eyes for a moment as if the words hurt. Or heal. Maybe both.
“When I was there, in that place… with Simon…” My throat catches. I stop. He squeezes my hand, just once, like he’s saying: go on. I’m here.
“…I thought about you. And not like a savior. Not as the man who’d show up with guns and fix everything. I thought about you… because you were the only face that still made sense. The only safe place my mind could reach.”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. His silence says everything.
“You’re the man I love, Felix, even when I hate you, even when I’m afraid. Even when you destroy everything around you. You’re the only one I want.”
His breath catches. So does mine. The room suddenly feels too small to hold whatever it is that’s between us now. He presses his lips to my forehead, breathes there like I’m the only anchor in his world. He stays still for a second, then, without warning, pulls back just enough to look at me again.
“Then marry me,” he says.
Straightforward. No ceremony. No, asking again. Like a decision made long before he ever spoke the words.
And for a moment, I pause.
Not because I doubt.
But because I never imagined wanting a whole life with someone, I only truly met when I almost died.
“Yes.”
The word slips out before I can think. It’s not an impulse. It’s fate. It’s the answer to everything my body felt while fighting to return. I woke up for him. And now, I choose to stay for myself.
“Yes, I’ll marry you, Felix. As many times as it takes. Because you’re the only place I know that never asks me to be anything else. Even when the whole world tries to break me, you look me in the eye. You see things in me I don’t even see in myself. And that… that’s enough.”
My voice falters, but my gaze doesn’t. His eyes shine in a way I’ve never seen before. It’s not joy. It’s acceptance. Relief. A love that knows exactly where it came from — and chooses to stay anyway.
“If you’ll have me like this—whole, but full of cracks-I ’m yours.”
He doesn’t answer. Just leans in and rests his forehead against mine again. Stays there, in silence, like sound might get in the way of what matters.
The two of us.