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Carol didn't pull away, but her gaze drifted—out past the balcony railing, past the city lights, to somewhere farther. "There's something else," she said. Athena waited. She always did. "I leave," Carol continued quietly. "Sometimes for weeks. Months. I don't always know when I'm coming back when I go." Her jaw tightened just a bit. "I don't ever want you to feel like you're waiting on me."

Athena studied her for a moment, expression open, steady. Then she reached out and took Carol's hand, lacing their fingers together. "You're not disappearing," Athena said. "You're doing what you do." Carol turned back to her. "And if it's too long?" Athena didn't hesitate. "Then I'll miss you. And you'll come home." Something in Carol's chest loosened at that—at the lack of conditions, of bargaining. "I don't want to be a question mark in your life," Carol said. "I want to be... solid."

"You are," Athena said simply. "Because you come back. Because you call. Because even when you're light-years away, you're still choosing us." Carol searched her face, like she was waiting for the other shoe to drop. It didn't. Athena squeezed her hand. "I don't need you here every second. I need you honest. I need you safe. And I need you to come back when you can." Carol let out a breath that sounded like relief. "I can do that."

"I know." Carol leaned in, resting her forehead against Athena's, eyes closed. "I've never had anyone say it like that before." Athena smiled softly. "You've never stayed long enough to hear it." Carol laughed under her breath, a little wet, a little free. "Okay," she said. "Then when I go... I'll make it back. Every time." Athena kissed her, slow and sure. "We'll be here." And for the first time, distance didn't feel like loss. It felt like a promise that knew how to return.