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Curiosity fills her expression, but she nods, allowing me to guide her through a side door into one of the museum's smaller galleries—currently empty, the lighting subdued, the space quiet compared to the busy main hall.

"What's this about?" she asks, turning to face me once the door closes behind us.

"I have something for you," I reply, reaching into the inner pocket of my suit jacket. "A gift."

Her eyebrow lifts slightly. "Should I be worried?"

"Not this time," I promise, withdrawing a small, flat box wrapped in simple black paper.

She takes it, studying the package with that artist's eye that misses nothing. "What's the occasion?"

"Your triumph," I reply simply. "Your exhibition. Your future."

She unwraps the gift carefully, lifting the lid of the box to reveal what lies within. Her breath catches audibly.

Inside, nestled on black velvet, is a gold bracelet unlike any other—delicate but strong, formed of two intertwined bands that flow together without beginning or end. One band is textured with tiny brushstrokes, like those from her paintings. The other is smooth, polished to a high sheen. Where they join, a small inscription is visible on the inner surface.

"Partnership," she reads, her voice soft with wonder. "Not possession."

"The words you said to me that night," I explain, watching her face carefully. "The night everything changed."

She lifts the bracelet from the box, turning it in the low light, examining every detail with the appreciation of someone who understands craftsmanship and intention.

"It's not a collar," I continue, needing her to understand completely. "Not ownership. Just a reminder of what we've become to each other. What we continue to choose every day."

"It's beautiful," she whispers.

"May I?" I ask, gesturing to the bracelet.

She nods, extending her wrist toward me. I fasten thebracelet around it with careful fingers, the clasp designed to be both secure and easily removed. Her choice, always her choice.

"Perfect," I murmur, pressing a kiss to the inside of her wrist where her pulse beats strong and steady.

"I love it," she says, studying the way the gold catches the light. Then, with deliberate emphasis, "I love you."

The words still feel new, still carry weight and wonder despite how often we've spoken them in recent months. "I love you too," I reply, meaning it completely.

She rises on her toes, pressing a kiss to my lips that lingers just long enough to promise more later. When she pulls back, her expression is mischievous.

"We should get back," she says, tracing a finger along my jaw. "People will talk."

"Let them," I reply, capturing her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm. "It's your night. We'll return when you're ready."

"Our night," she corrects, eyes bright with happiness. "Our future."

The words settle between us, weighted with possibility, with potential, with promises yet to be made and kept. She's right, of course. After everything we've been through, everything we've become to each other, there is no more "yours" or "mine." Only "ours."

We return to the exhibition hand in hand. As two people who chose each other not once in a moment of claiming, but every day in a thousand small acts of love.

Three weeks after the exhibition opening, I find Luna in her SoHo studio, afternoon light streaming through the tall windows, painting with the focused intensity that still mesmerizesme after all this time. She doesn't notice me at first, too absorbed in her work, brush moving with confident strokes across a large canvas.

I stop in the doorway, content to watch without interrupting. She's wearing one of my shirts, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, hair piled messily atop her head, bare feet tapping absently to whatever plays through her headphones. The gold bracelet catches the light with each movement of her wrist, a constant reminder of our mutual choice.

When she finally senses my presence and turns, her smile is like sunrise breaking across her face. She pulls off her headphones, setting them aside.

"How long have you been standing there?" she asks, wiping her hands on a nearby cloth.

"Long enough," I reply, crossing the space between us.