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The confession sat between us.

Sloane looked down at the path. “That’s why you say yes to everything.”

“I don’t say yes to everything.”

She turned her head, giving me a quiet, pointed look.

“Fine,” I admitted softly. “Most things.”

“You carry jumper cables for strangers.”

“People with dead batteries are rarely complete strangers. Usually they’re distant cousins.”

“You keep spare shoes for children in your truck.”

I shrugged. “The littles are always losing their shoes.”

“You had backup extension cords at movie night.”

“Those were necessary.”

“You’re eating your dinner out of a bag while walking because you spent the entire evening doing things for other people.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That part is partially your fault. You encouraged the walk.”

“I brought you dinner.”

“Which I’m eating.”

She shook her head, but tenderness had replaced the teasing in her eyes. “You know being dependable isn’t the same as never needing anything.”

“I know.”

“Do you really?”

I searched her face in the moonlight.

She lifted one shoulder, picking idly at the seam of her jeans with her thumb. “I’m asking because I’m not sure I do either.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“My parents were always physically there, but I learned early that needing too much made everyone uncomfortable. Asking questions was fine, but only if they were academic. Problems were fine if I already had a proposed solution. Emotions needed to be presented in an organized format with supporting evidence.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It was efficient… for them,” she said, though the humor did not reach her eyes. “Eventually I stopped asking anyone for anything. I thought that made me independent. Now I think I might have confused independence with becoming very easy to neglect.”

The sentence was like a physical blow. How could anyone neglect her?

Sloane kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, clearly hoping the darkness was enough to hide the subtle shift in her expression. But my senses picked up every small change—the slight catch in her breathing, the tight press of her lips, her shoulders curving inward as if trying to shrink away.

“You shouldn’t have had to make yourself easy to neglect,” I said softly.

“I know that intellectually.” Sloane swallowed, and to my ears the sound echoed in the stillness. Her pace slowed as she stared straight ahead. “I’ve actually never told anyone this before. Not even my cousin Missy. Nobody.”

I gave her whatever space she needed. “You don’t have to if it hurts.”

“No,” she said, her voice dropping into a raspy, delicate whisper. “I think… I think I want you to know.”