Clea

Clea gently squeezed Strange’s hand, and the world around them seemed to freeze. The stars continued to swirl, but now they felt closer, almost tangible. Their light reflected in her eyes, and for a moment, Stephen felt his breath catch.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked, her gaze unwavering.

"That I’ve been pushing this feeling away for too long," he admitted.

She looked slightly surprised—Strange wasn’t one to open up so easily.

"And why?"

He let out a heavy sigh.

"Because every time I let myself get close to someone… fate takes them away."

Clea studied his face carefully, as if trying to peer straight into his soul.

"I’m not Mordo, not Christine, not the ancient enemies who tried to take everything from you. I’m Clea. And I choose my own fate."

She stepped closer, and Stephen felt the warmth of her magic mixing with his own energy.

"Are you afraid of losing me?" Her voice was soft but held power.

"I’m not afraid," his fingers brushed against her cheek gently. "I just don’t know if I can endure it again."

Clea smiled, resting her palms against his chest.

"Then maybe it’s time to stop thinking about what might happen and just be here and now?"

Strange hesitated, feeling the last of his walls crumbling. Maybe she was right. Maybe fate had already made its choice for him.