This is going to be a series of drabbles about the next-gen.
"You're not okay, are you?"
"Stop. Please."
He reaches her hand, and slides his fingers between hers. "Rose, it's okay to fall apart."
She looks up at him tearfully. "Not in front of you."
"Even then," he says quietly, kissing her hand gently.
She smiles slightly, but it fades. "James, please. They'll find us here."
"Then we'll do what we always do."
"I—we can't just tell them, James," she says, sitting up a little straighter.
"Who said anything about telling them? And who said that we always tell the truth?"
"I love you, James," she whispers. " And that's my truth."
