His forehead presses to mine again, his breath uneven but slowing.
“I’ve never said any of that out loud,” he murmurs.
I don’t answer right away. I don’t want to rush him past this moment just because silence makes people uncomfortable. Some things need space to breathe.
“I know,” I say softly. “I can tell.”
His thumb traces a slow, absent line along my hip.
“I didn’t plan to tell you,” he admits. “I planned to keep functioning. That’s always been the plan.”
I pull back enough to look at him. “And how’s that been working out for you?”
His mouth lifts faintly. “You’re standing in my shower, so … not great.”
I smile despite everything.
He exhales, shoulders loosening another fraction. “I’m afraid,” he says quietly. “Not of you. Of what letting you stay might undo.”
I rest my hand over his heart, feeling it beat hard and fast beneath my palm.
“Undoing isn’t always destruction,” I say. “Sometimes, it’s just … making room.”
He closes his eyes. When he opens them, there’s something different there. Less guarded. Less braced.
“You’re not asking me to promise anything,” he says.
“No,” I agree. “I’m asking you not to disappear.”
He nods slowly. “I can try.”
The honesty in that answer is what makes my throat tighten.
“That’s all I want,” I say.
He leans in again, kissing me with a depth that feels heavier now. His hands slide up my arms, over my shoulders, skimming my neck, like he’s memorizing the feeling of being close without armor.
I feel the shift in him before he speaks again.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmurs.
I shake my head.
His mouth traces along my jaw, down my neck, lingering there in a way that makes my breath hitch, not because ofwhat he’s doing, but because of what it means. He’s present and not running.
His hands slip to the hem of my shirt, hesitating long enough to make sure I’m still with him.
I am.
He lifts it slowly. His gaze follows the movement, dark and focused, his restraint almost palpable.
I reach for him then, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, grounding him the way he grounded me earlier.
“This isn’t about escaping,” I say quietly. “Not for me.”
His jaw tightens. “I know.”
“And I don’t expect you to be healed,” I continue. “I expect you to be honest.”
