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“Have you ever thought about therapy?”

The question catches me completely off guard. Therapy? Of all the directions I thought this conversation was going to go, that wasn’t one of them. My eyes immediately drop to our joined hands. I stare at the contrast between them. His large fingers wrapped around mine.

Last night’s panic attack flashes through my mind. The complete loss of control. Heat creeps up my neck. Of course this is why he’s asking about therapy. He saw me fall apart, saw how damaged I really am. I’m broken in his eyes. A problem that needs solving. Something that needs to be fixed. The thought hurts more than it should.

“I’ve tried it before.” My voice sounds distant. I keep my gaze locked on our hands. Unable to look at him.

“The VA has therapists available after discharge.” My thumb rubs against the scar crossing my palm. “I went.”

The admission sits heavily between us. Because the truth is, I didn’t just try once. I wanted it to work. I really did.

“It didn’t help.” I shake my head. “Not with the nightmares. Not with the panic attacks.” My eyes remain fixed on our joined hands. “I felt like a number to the guy.”

Just a case file, another veteran sitting across from him. Another appointment to get through before lunch.

“And there were things that happened that I couldn’t talk about.” The words come out quieter. “Not with someone connected to the military.”

Trent. The name echoes through my head. There was no way I could have told a military therapist that part of my grief came from losing my lover. That I never got closure, or that some days I still didn’t know whether I was mourning Trent or mourning the future I’d thought we were building together.

“What about someone not connected to the military?”

My laugh is short, bitter. “With what money?” I finally look up at him. “Or insurance?”

Conor doesn’t hesitate. “I’m going to arrange for someone to come here and talk to you.”

“No.”

The word leaves my mouth before I can stop it. Conor blinks. Clearly not expecting the interruption.

“Jaxon—”

“No.”

I pull my hands free and stand. Suddenly unable to sit still. Unable to breathe.

“You’ve done enough already.” I pace toward the fireplace. “I can’t keep taking from you, Conor.”

Silence falls between us. Beneath my grief is something far more dangerous. Fear. The fear that he’ll eventually see me differently. That he’ll decide I’m too damaged. Too much work. Not worth the effort.

I’m so lost in those thoughts that I don’t realize Conor has crossed the room until he’s standing behind me. Gently, but without hesitation, he turns me to face him.

“You aren’t taking anything.” His vivid green eyes lock onto mine. “I’m willingly giving you everything.” The words steal the air from my lungs.

It’s strange having someone meet me eye-to-eye. Most people don’t. Even Trent had been several inches shorter than me. Being the biggest person in the room always came with expectations. People assumed I wanted to be in charge. Especially in the gay community. Large men were expected to take charge. To dominate. People saw my size and assumed they knew what I wanted. What I needed. They were wrong.

The truth was, I’ve always craved the opposite. Not because I’m weak. Not because I can’t take care of myself. But because I’ve spent my entire life doing exactly that. Taking care of myself. Just surviving. Carrying everything alone.

Looking at Conor now, I realize that what draws me to him isn’t just his strength. It’s the certainty. The way he takes control of a situation and makes me believe, if only for a moment, that I don’t have to carry the weight by myself. My thoughts drift somewhere they probably shouldn’t. To his hands. His voice. The way he says my name when he’s worried about me. Heat creeps into my face. Because this conversation has nothing to do with sex. Yet somehow my brain insists on making connections anyway.

He cups the side of my face with his large hand. His thumb brushes gently across my cheek. The gesture is so soft it almost hurts.

“Will you try again?” His eyes hold mine. “For me?”

Before I can even think through the question, I find myself nodding. The answer comes from somewhere deeper than logic. Somewhere beneath the fear. Beneath the pride. Beneath the part of me that has spent years pretending I could handle everything on my own. Because the truth is I want help.

I really do. God knows I haven’t done a very good job by myself. I take a steadying breath. If Conor is going to keep helping me, then he deserves the truth. All of it. Before I become even more attached to him. Before I start depending on him in ways I can’t come back from. He needs to know exactly who he’s dealing with.

“I need to tell you something.” The words shake coming out. I hate that they do. I hate that this still has the power to affect me.