“I wasn’t allowed to grieve,” he says bitterly. “There wasn’t space for it. Someone had to hold everything together.”
His voice breaks. “I resented them,” he admits. “For leaving me with it. For making me grow up while I was still drowning.”
Tears spill freely now, and he doesn’t wipe them away.
“I loved Molly so much,” he whispers. “And I hated that loving her that much destroyed everything.”
My own tears fall silently as I reach for his hand, wrapping both of mine around it.
He grips back hard.
“I went into oncology because I thought if I could save others,” he says, voice shaking, “if I could stop someone else from feeling this … then maybe her death would mean something.”
A sob tears out of him that’s completely raw.
“But it didn’t heal me,” he gasps. “Nothing healed me. I only learned how to bury it deeper.”
He folds forward suddenly, breath hitching violently, grief pouring out of him in waves he’s clearly never allowed himself to feel.
I pull him into me without thinking, his forehead pressing into my shoulder as his body trembles.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, rubbing slow circles into his back. “You don’t have to carry this alone.”
He clings to me like he’s afraid he’ll fall apart completely if I let go.
“I haven’t cried like this since she died,” he says into my shoulder.
And I believe him. He stays there, breaths uneven, grief pouring out of him like it’s been waiting decades for permission.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes are red, his expression raw.
“Frank wrote me a letter,” he says. “Told me he doesn’t want me to live like this anymore. Closed off. Afraid.”
He looks at me closely.
“I don’t either,” he says quietly. “But I don’t know how to change overnight.”
I nod. “I can give you time,” I say honestly. “But I can’t promise more than that.”
He studies my face, then leans in slowly, carefully, as he gives me every chance to pull away, but I don’t. Ican’t.
Our lips meet in a soft, deliberate kiss. It’s not frantic or desperate. Just real.
His hands slide to my waist. We stand up, and I wrap my arms around his neck. He deepens the kiss and guides me gently backward toward the bathroom. Heat blooms low in my stomach.
He opens the shower and leads me inside. The shower tiles are cool against my back as his forehead rests against mine.
“Tell me if this is too much,” he murmurs.
“It’s not,” I breathe.
His mouth finds mine again.
The bathroom is quiet, except for the faint hum of the city outside.
Colton doesn’t turn on the shower. He doesn’t rush. His hands rest at my waist like he needs to know I’m real, that I didn’t disappear the moment he said her name out loud.
Molly.
