“Eat your soup, Cooper,” I whisper, because if I answer that my voice will crack.
He lets out a soft laugh, but it turns into a sigh. “You’re bossy and lovely. Terrible combination.”
“Stop complaining or I’ll feed you the cold part at the bottom,” I tease, blowing gently across the next spoonful.
Another drop escapes the corner of his lips and I wipe it away with my thumb before I can think. He freezes at the touch, eyes flicking up to mine like he’s stunned I’d still be gentle with him after everything.
The rhythm settles in: dip, blow, feed, wipe. Over and over, a quiet ritual. The only sounds are the clink of the spoon, his slow chewing, and our soft, half-whispered bickering:
“Careful, it’s still hot.”
“You always overblow it.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You like it.”
By the time the bowl is half empty, his shoulders have dropped. The tension in his jaw eases, and he leans back into the pillows, letting me do all the work.
When I tilt the bowl to catch the last of the broth, he sighs, almost embarrassed. “You didn’t have to...”
“Yes, I did.” I cut him off gently, scooping up the final spoonful. “Open up.”
He obeys. His lips close around the spoon, and when he swallows, I set the empty bowl aside. My fingers linger on his cheek, brushing along his jaw. His skin is warm, damp with the remnants of tears.
His eyes flicker to mine, raw and unguarded. “Can you explain why you’re doing this? I just want you to be happy.”
I hold his gaze, my thumb stroking his cheekbone, my other hand tangled lightly in his hair. He looks so breakable, and yet so utterly mine in this moment.
“Because, Vincent Cooper,” I whisper, my throat tight, “I can’t unlove you. And I won’t let you go through this night alone... And I’m already happy. I just need you to stop putting walls between us out of fear. Are we co-dependent? Fine. You’ll go away to heal. I can go to therapy too, to figure out what the hell is going on in my head. I don’t care. But please—just for one second—try to see beyond all of our problems.”
“The only thing I see is you,” he whispers.
I take his chin gently between my thumb and forefinger. “And all I see is you. Do you want to know why? Because problems can be faced. Just like past traumas. Depression can be healed. Anxiety can be controlled. Medications can be eliminated after sacrifice, and fear can be conquered. But—”
“But love doesn’t end,” he finishes for me, cupping my face in his hands, “I know.”
“And it never will. Not when it’s this strong. Not when it could grow into the most beautiful relationship I’ll ever experience.” My voice cracks on the wordbeautiful, like the sound of a record that skips. I’m so close to him that I can feel his breath trembling against my lips, warm and uneven. “So please...” My voice falls to a whisper, almost a prayer. “Stop pushing me away. Stop thinking I’m better than you, because I’m not. I’m just as broken as you are. But I’m willing to try—to heal my heart if it means healing it with you. I can’t keep doing this—running in circles while you hold the door half-closed. I’m tired of waking up every morning with the same ache, tired of pretending I don’t notice the way you step back the moment I reach for you. I won’t spend my life proving myself worthy of someone who won’t let himself be loved. Your trauma doesn’t get to decide our future. It doesn’t get a vote. Your fear can’tchoose for you. You can be terrified of becoming him, you can be terrified of everything that hurt you, but those terrors don’t get to sign your life away. They don’t get to decide who you love, who you hurt, or who you let in. You are allowed—no, you are entitled—to want more than fear. You are allowed to want me. No one else should tell you what we can be. Not your past, not the worst things people did to you, not the echo of a voice that told you you were less than. Not even your own panic when the world tilts. The only thing that should have the final say is your heart: what it aches for, what it forgives, what it chooses when everything else is stripped away. If your heart wants me, then fight for that. Let that be the thing you answer to. I’m not asking you to pretend your scars don’t exist. I’m not asking you to be anything you’re not. I’m asking you to stop letting them run the script. Be honest with me, with yourself. Tell me when you’re scared, tell me when you need help, but don’t push me away because you’re afraid of hurting me. If you love me—really love me—let that love be the thing that guides you, not what broke you.”
His eyes flicker, the pale brown darkened by doubt. He swallows hard, his throat working as though he’s fighting words he’s terrified to say. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he finally manages, voice so low I almost miss it.
“Then don’t.” My thumbs trace the sharp line of his cheekbones, slow and deliberate, grounding him in my touch the way he’s grounded me for years. His skin is warm beneath my fingers, a little damp from tears he hasn’t even noticed. “Be with me. Let me stand by you while you learn to stand for yourself. Let me be your Nova. It’s up to you, Cooper.”
A trembling smile curves my lips, but it feels fragile, like glass about to shatter.
“Nova...” he sighs, his voice low, his eyes fixed somewhere on the floor instead of on me.
The fragile smile that had been clinging to my lips vanishes instantly. I hear the defeat in his tone, the same quiet resignation that always comes before he walks away—again.
“No, right?” I say, my voice trembling. “Your problems are stronger than whatever feelings you have for me. If you even have feelings at all.”
I grab my jacket off the bed and shove it on, my hands shaking. “You know what? I’m done chasing you, Cooper. I’m done being the only one who fights for this, who bleeds for this, who keeps holding on when you don’t even try.”
He looks up, startled, but I don’t stop. The words pour out, wild and sharp and raw.
“I’m not your toy. I’m not going to just stand here waiting for your next good mood to decide whether I’m worth loving that day. I’m tired of it—tired of you confusing me, pulling me close just to push me away again.”
“Nova—”
