Page 174 of These Secret Years

“I do know that,” I assert firmly.

“And so what if I had? So what if I do? Does that mean we just never do it again? Or we wait another year, and then what? How could you possibly fucking want this?” He gestures at himself, at the space between us.

“To start with, I love you⁠—”

“Whatever,” he bites out.

“Not whatever. Would you rather be with someone who didn’t? Who doesn’t know you or any of your triggers? You want to just take your chances, and maybe it’s okay, or maybe you get re-traumatized, and then what?”

“I told you once that I needed your help moving past something. I wanted you to help me play the violin again⁠—”

“That was all wrong.”

“For you. It was all wrong for you, but it was what I needed.”

“And look at you now—playing violin again just fine without recreating some disgusting pervert putting his hands all over you where they never belonged.”

“Sex requires two people,” he says, giving me a look like I’m the big, dumb jock he’s always joking that I am.

Thinking I’m being so logical, I counter with, “It doesn’t require fear.”

“But I am afraid,” he nearly shouts. “And I trust you for fuck’s sake. So no, I don’t want to go find some other dude to hold me down and fuck me through the fear, but I was asking you to do it.”

“And you thought I’d just what? Jump at the chance?”

He goes quiet. He’s seething. And then his shoulders drop with what looks like defeat. “It’s what I need, Knight.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Two tears streak down his face. “Because…the second you were inside me, I wanted to fight you. And I thought if you held me down, I might relax.”

“You have to understand that makes no sense.”

He shakes his head. “You have no idea what I go through. What I went through.”

“Explain it to me, then.”

He glares at me. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

It isn’t. He’s right about that at least. I know what I need to. That he tried to fight back. That his wrist snapped backwards in the process. That he was held down. That he was raped by someone he thought he was free of. That it shook him to his core. That he still hasn’t gotten any therapy for it whatsoever.

“This doesn’t have to come between us,” I tell him.

“It’s already between us.”

I swallow hard. He’s right about that, too.

He steps forward again, this time wedging himself between my partly spread thighs. In a softer voice, he says, “I want you to take me back.”

I put my hands on his hips and make sure he can feel them, asserting them there like if I hold him to the earth, he can find his center again. “You know what would be cool?”

“What?”

“If you wanted to recreate something good. Something between us. The truck, maybe.”

“I’m not asking for a re-enactment. I’m asking for some force applied only when necessary.”

“You’re right,” I tell him. “I don’t think I can do that.”