They did not speak on the way down the courthouse steps.
The afternoon had turned clear and cool. Traffic moved along the avenue in ordinary streams.
A woman pushing a stroller passed them without looking up. Somewhere a horn sounded and then faded.
The world had not paused for the ruling; it had simply continued, and somehow that made the relief sharper.
Gabriel's hand stayed at the small of Ethan's back until they reached the car. He opened the passenger door.
Ethan sat. For a moment he only looked at the dashboard, both hands resting on his knees.
Gabriel closed the door, walked around, and got in. He did not start the engine immediately.
"Breathe," he said quietly.
Ethan did. The air filled his chest and left again. Some of the tightness that had lived under his ribs for fourteen days went with it.
"It's still ours," Ethan said. The words came out low, almost testing.
"Yes."
"They don't get to take it off the floor."
"No."
