Because something in me knows if I move now, I’m choosing distance again, choosing space, choosing the version of this where I keep everything exactly where I can control it.
And for once, I don’t move.
Jace doesn’t either.
He stays where he is, leaning back against the counter now, arms crossed loose instead of tight, like he’s holding himself in place just as much as I am.
“You don’t have to fight everything,” he says after a minute, his voice quieter than before, less guarded.
“I’m not fighting,” I answer, even though we both know that’s not true.
“You are,” he says, not pushing it, just stating it. “You’ve been fighting since the second you got here.”
I shake my head, but there’s no real force behind it. “That’s how I keep things from getting messy.”
“And how’s that working for you?” he asks again, softer this time, like he already knows the answer and isn’t trying to trap me into saying it.
I let out a breath, slower than I mean to.
“It worked,” I say. “For a long time, it worked.”
It comes out in past tense, and I hear it the same second he does.
His gaze shifts, not surprised, not satisfied, just… taking it in.
“What changed?” he asks.
I should shut that down and give him something simple, something clean that doesn’t open the door any wider than it already is, but instead I hear myself answer.
“You,” I say.
The word lands between us, heavier than anything else in the room.
I don’t take it back.
I don’t soften it.
Because it’s true, and I’m too tired to pretend it isn’t.
His jaw tightens just slightly, not from anger, not from surprise, but from something deeper that he’s trying to hold steady.
“That’s not what I meant,” he says.
“I know,” I answer. “But it’s still the answer.”
Silence stretches again, but it’s different now, not something we’re hiding behind, something we’re standing in.
“I didn’t plan for this,” I add after a second, my voice quieter now, more honest than I’ve let it be since I walked through the door. “Any of it. Not the land, not the mess tied to it, and definitely not…”
I stop myself before I finish that sentence.
Not him, but we both hear it anyway.
“You don’t have to plan everything,” he says.
“I do,” I shoot back, the edge slipping in before I can stop it. “That’s how I keep her safe.”
“And I’m not asking you to stop doing that,” he says. “I’m asking you to let her father help you do it.”
