[ she doesn't have to speak for her surprise to make itself known, to reveal she had been bracing for another answer altogether. her silence echoes between them like an empty corridor, suddenly bereft and barren of the anger she had sharpened in preparation for his inevitable no.

only for a yes to rest in its place instead, warmly given without a fight. truthfully, she doesn't know what to do with his belief in her — not when she has grown so used to it not existing. not when his faith has always seemed so lacking. ]

It sounds like you're expecting to regret it.

[ there's a small bite to it that can't be helped. like she doesn't quite know what to do with all of the defensiveness she had gathered, only to be proven wrong in her own assumption.

she sucks in a wobbling breath to steady herself. misplaced or not, it doesn't change the truth. don't make me regret it. why else track that on, if he was not expecting her to? if anyone should be speaking that warning — don't make me regret it — alina sourly thinks to herself that it should be her. ]

You won't. [ a stubborn conviction forges itself into those two words, iron-wrought. sturdy. solid. a declaration that sounds defiant of his expectations, some rebellious determination that swells inside of her. ] It's a promise, then. I will come back to you, and when I do, I'll make sure to say I told you so.