“How very CEO of you.”
“It is not about control.”
“Feels like control.”
His jaw flexed, but he didn’t retreat into silence this time.
“It feels,” he corrected, “like prevention.”
I studied him. “You don’t even know me,” I said.
“I know you’re proud,” he said. “And exhausted.”
That landed harder than I expected.
“I know you would rather sleep in a van than accept help.”
My throat tightened slightly.
“I know,” he continued, quieter now, “that you minimize pain.”
Silence. The candles flickered between us.
“That’s a lot of conclusions for a week,” I said.
“I’m an observant man.”
“And a judgmental one.” I crossed my arms over my chest. There were a handful of people in my life who called me out like this. And all of them I could pummel when we put our skates on.
“No.” He held my gaze steadily. “I recognize.”
I shifted in my chair, knee aching in protest. “You think this is simple,” I said.
“No, I don’t.”
“You think I’ll just sign paperwork and everything will be fine.”
“No.”
“Then what do you think?”
He hesitated. Just slightly. “I think,” he said carefully, “that you are used to carrying everything alone.”
My chest tightened.
“And I think,” he continued, “that you don’t have to.”
The words hung there. Not romantic. Not possessive. Just . . . offered.
I looked away first.
“That sounds dangerously close to rescuing,” I said lightly.
“It is not a rescue,” he replied. “It’s just a signature on a line.”
“You really believe that.”
“Yes.”
