“I think I’ve been in love with you for a while,” he continues. “Longer than I wanted to admit. Maybe longer than I even knew how to recognize.”
My throat closes. I can’t speak. I only stare.
He looks almost … raw. Like the words cost him something, but he’s saying them anyway.
“I didn’t plan it,” he says. “And I didn’t want it at first.”
A small, humorless smile flickers at the corner of his mouth.
“But you stayed,” he continues. “You didn’t demand. You didn’t pressure.”
Tears spill over. He doesn’t move to wipe them away. He doesn’t rush to fix it.
He watches me with an aching kind of patience.
“I saw you in that room with Frank,” he says quietly. “Day after day. Showing up. Carrying things you didn’t have to carry. And you did it with softness.”
I press a hand to my chest, like it might keep me from coming apart.
“And then you held me,” he adds, voice catching. “When I finally let go. You held me like I wasn’t too much.”
My breath shudders.
“I love you,” he repeats, like he needs the words to be solid in the air between us. “And I don’t know how to do this perfectly. But I’m tired of living my life like love is something that only ends in loss.”
I shake my head, tears falling freely now.
“I’m …” My voice breaks. I try again. “I’m shocked you noticed the wine.”
He lets out a quiet breath that sounds almost like relief. “I notice a lot when it comes to you.”
I laugh again, broken and disbelieving. “That’s … terrifying.”
He smiles faintly. “Yeah, it is.”
I wipe at my cheeks, frustrated by how quickly I’m unraveling.
“I love you too,” I whisper.
His face changes instantly, as if something in him releases. A loosening in his shoulders, a softening around his eyes.
“I do,” I say again, stronger. “I love you.”
He takes a step closer, then stops, like he’s giving me space to take it back.
I don’t.
I stand so quickly that the chair scrapes softly against the floor and cross the small distance between us. Myhands find his face without thinking, cupping his cheeks the way I did once before when he was falling apart.
His eyes close briefly at the touch.
“You don’t have to heal overnight,” I whisper. “You don’t have to be perfect.”
He opens his eyes, gaze locked on mine.
“But I need honesty,” I add. “I can give you time. I can be patient. But I need you to tell me when you’re struggling instead of disappearing.”
His throat moves as he swallows.
