Not the same thing as fine.
I don’t push. I don’t want to pry. I don’t want to turn his pain into a story I get to consume.
But the way he looks at me right now, I know he’s already decided something.
He’s giving me pieces on purpose.
He leans back, gaze on the fire for a second. “I had girlfriends before the Army.”
My throat tightens again.
He looks at me. “One mattered.”
The words are simple. They hit like a bruise.
“She died,” he says. “Car accident. Fifteen years ago.”
My chest aches. “Wolf…”
His jaw tightens like he regrets saying it out loud. “After that,” he continues, voice flat, “I stopped letting people close. The Army made it easier. War does that.”
I wrap my hands tighter around the mug, as if I can hold the warmth and keep it from being swallowed by his cold.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
His gaze snaps to mine. “Don’t.”
It’s sharp enough to make me flinch.
Then his expression shifts, softer at the edges, like he hates that he startled me.
“I don’t want your pity,” he says. “I don’t want you looking at me like I’m broken.”
My mouth opens, then closes.
Because he is broken. I can feel it. The way he holds himself like he’s holding something inside.
But he’s also… here. He’s real. He’s the man who kissed me on his lap and meant it.
“I don’t pity you,” I say quietly. “I…”
I don’t finish.
Because what I want to say is I like you, and that sounds insane.
Wolf watches me, eyes steady. “Good.”
The word comes out rough, but it doesn’t feel like a judgment. It feels like relief.
The fire pops.
The tea warms my throat.
My pulse slows and then speeds up again for a different reason, because Wolf’s gaze drops to my mouth and stays there a beat too long.
I set the mug down because my hands are shaking again.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” I whisper.
