He reads conviction in her eyes and prays to god he never replaces that with regret. She has such tiny hands--his own when they take them nearly swallow hers--but they're strong and calloused still from years and years of gymnastics, just like she is: strong and capable and maybe a little knocked around. Monty carries her hands to his lips and brushes a kiss across the knuckles of each hand, before turning them over and pressing his lips against her palms.

"Less than forever, then, though I reckon you ought to have your head examined to even entertain that notion."

Monty grows silent, studying her solemnly. They're neither one of them the same people they were back in September. He knows she's spread her wings and started to soar. As for himself, well, he don't know about flying, but he surely hopes he's become a better person.

Finally, he tucks both her hands in his left hand. Slowly, like he'd gentle an unbroken filly, he cups the nape of her neck with his right, leans in and kisses her.