"I don't know what I want anymore," I whispered, tears gathering despite my best efforts to contain them.
"I know what I should want. I know what makes sense. But then there's you, and nothing makes sense when I'm with you."
His expression softened slightly. "Explain."
"I'm scared of you," I admitted, the words tearing from me with unexpected force. "Not physically. Never that. I'm scared of what you make me feel. What you make me want. How easily I keep surrendering control when that's the one thing I swore I'd never do again."
He didn't touch me, didn't offer comfort, just gave me space to continue—the silence itself a form of recognition I hadn't realized I needed.
"This pattern—it's not new for me." I set down my mug, hands trembling too much to trust my grip. "I've always been drawn to power. To men who make me feel small, make me work for validation, make me prove my worth again and again."
Understanding dawned in his eyes.
"Like Miles."
"Yes." I laughed, the sound hollow even to my own ears.
"God, yes. That's what attracted me to him initially. The Turner confidence. The casual arrogance. The sense that I'd have to fight to be seen as more than an accessory."
I moved to the window, needing distance, needing perspective. The city spread below us, people moving through their ordinary lives while mine spun increasingly out of control.
"I recognized it with him, eventually," I continued. "In therapy after we broke up. The pattern from my childhood—a father whose attention I could never quite earn, a mother who taught me love was conditional on performance. I swore I wouldn't repeat it."
"And then you met me." His voice was quiet, neutral, revealing nothing of what this revelation might mean to him.
"And then I met you." I turned back to face him, needing him to see the truth in my eyes. "The same pattern but different. Magnified. More intense. More dangerous."
"Dangerous," he repeated, testing the word.
"Is that how you see me, Savannah? As a danger to you?"
"No," I whispered.
"That's the problem. I see you as necessary. As inevitable." I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the penthouse. "I'm the danger. To myself. To the life I've tried to build."
He moved closer then, not touching me but near enough that I could feel the heat of his body, catch the familiar scent of cedar and bergamot that had become synonymous with desire in my mind.
"What life have you built, exactly?" he asked, the question gentler than I expected. "A successful career, yes. A beautiful apartment. Financial independence. But have you built connection? Joy? The freedom to be fully yourself without filters or facades?"
The precision of his assessment felt like a physical blow. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" His eyes held mine, unflinching in their directness. "You speak of self-destructive patterns as if our connection is merely another example. As if what exists between us is nothing more than trauma repeating itself."
"Isn't it?" I echoed his question, voice breaking.
"Look at us, Lucas. The secrets. The lies. The intensity that borders on obsession. How is this healthy? How is this not just another version of me seeking validation from a man who holds all the power?"
Something flickered in his expression—hurt, perhaps, or disappointment.
"Is that all I am to you? A power figure to rebel against? A father substitute to finally win approval from?"
"No!" The denial burst from me with surprising force.
"God, no. That's what terrifies me. You're so much more. You see parts of me I've kept hidden from everyone. You challenge me not to diminish myself but to recognize my own strength. You make me feel..."
"Feel what?" he prompted when I fell silent.
"Seen," I whispered. "For the first time in my life, truly seen."
