He’s quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is lower. Rougher.
“My father died reaching for my mother’s ghost.”
His jaw locks. He turns the whiskey glass in his grip but doesn’t drink. The silence stretches, and I understand he’s not going to say more. Not because there isn’t more. Because the words won’t come.
I already know the rest. The nightmares I’ve heard through walls. The study that still smells like his father’s cigarettes. Eleven years of a son holding together what grief tore apart.
“Someone had to step up,” I say.
His stare meets mine. Dark. Knowing.
My breath hitches. My hand stills on my lap.
Four heartbeats of silence. Five.
The same trap. Both of us. But I can’t say it out loud because my throat has closed around the recognition.
“We’re a matched set,” I manage. Voice low.
His mouth curves. Not a smile. More honest than that.
“I swore I’d never need anyone.” He sets down the glass. The clink against the table is too loud. “Not after watching what it did to him.”
“Did it work?”
His focus holds mine. Heavy. “I thought it did.”
He rises. Crosses to where I’m sitting. Stops in front of my chair and looks down at me with an expression I can’t name.
“Elena ran.” His voice drops. Rough. Each word dragged out like it costs him. “And I got you.”
He swallows. His jaw works.
“You’re not a fucking backup plan.”
That’s all. He can’t say more. I watch his fist curl at his side, the knuckles going white, and I understand that those six words took everything he had.
I should deflect. Should crack a joke about spreadsheets or make some self-deprecating comment that lets us both off the hook.
Instead I say, “I don’t know how to be anything else.”
“I know.” He reaches down. His thumb traces my jaw. A touch that used to make me flinch.
“You’re the same,” I whisper. “Eleven years of not needing anyone.”
His thumb stills against my skin. Then, rough: “And then you walked into my study.”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t have to.
“This is terrifying,” I whisper.
“Yeah.” His grip stays on my jaw. Steady. “It is.”
“You’re supposed to say it’s not. That it’ll be fine. That we’ll figure it out.”
“I don’t lie to you.”
“That’s not comforting.”
