“That was a figure of speech,” I say quickly, afraid to even look at Connor.
Connor’s chest shifts against my shoulder, and I hear him snort. When I finally glance up at him, I catch him fighting a smile.
I narrow my eyes at him. “Stop laughing.”
“I’m not laughing,” he says, which is a lie, but not one worth fighting him on.
Mom looks between us, and her expression softens in a way that makes my chest ache. That’s the part I hate most. Not the questions. Not the ganging up. Not even the sudden real estate intervention.
It’s the way she looks at us like this is real.
Like she can already see Connor in my life. Not as a guest for one weekend, but as someone who stays. Someone whobelongs there. Someone she’s been quietly hoping I’d find for years.
And the horrible part is that I can see it too.
Connor in my apartment. Connor asleep in my bed. The two of us teasing each other in a kitchen where the heat actually works and the walls don’t carry every sound from the neighbors. Kissing because no one is watching, lying around together because we want to, having sex, building a future.
Then reality hits hard enough to make me dizzy.
Connor is not my boyfriend. Connor is not moving in with me. After this weekend, he’s going back across the hall, and I’m going back to pretending I don’t listen for his voice through our shitty fucking walls.
“Sweetie,” Mom says gently, pulling me back before my brain can ruin me any further, “we know you wanted to do this on your own. We know your independence matters to you, and we’re proud of you for that.”
I blink at her, caught off guard.
“But wanting to stand on your own doesn’t mean you have to make your life harder forever,” she continues. “And if you and Connor are at the point where you’re talking about settling down, then maybe it’s time to think about your first real apartment. Together.”
Together.
The word sits there between us, impossible to ignore, painful in a way it has no right to be.
Dad leans forward a little, his glass balanced between both hands. “Your mother and I would like to help with the downpayment, son,” he says. “As a gift. No pressure, no conditions. We just want you to have the option when you’re ready.”
I open my mouth.
Close it.
For once in my life, I have absolutely nothing to say.
This is so much worse than I expected. They’re not just nudging us toward moving in together. They’re offering money. Real money, by the sound of it. All based on a relationship that doesn’t actually exist.
For a second, I think I’m going to cry.
Not because of the down payment, obviously, even though part of me is pissed that they still see me as this pathetic twenty-nine-year-old loser who needs his parents to rescue him. And I know how ridiculous that sounds. Being able to refuse money is a privilege. I know I’m not starving or homeless or sick, and that choosing pride over help is its own spoiled little luxury.
But knowing that doesn’t make it sting less.
And it still isn’t the part that hurts most.
What hurts is realizing how lonely they must think I am. How quickly they’ve latched onto Connor as proof that maybe I’m finally okay. Maybe I finally found someone. Maybe this serious, handsome man sitting beside me is the beginning of the life they’ve been quietly wishing for me all these years.
And now I’m realizing our fake breakup at the end of our fake relationship is probably going to hurt them too.
The panic rises so fast I almost blurt out the truth right there. I should just tell them this is all a lie, run out of the room, and let Connor deal with the wreckage.
Real mature. I know.
Instead, I finally manage, my voice strained, “That’s really generous, but no.”
