“Good,” Elena made another note. “That’s significant. You’re aware of the pattern. But awareness and change are different things. So let’s talk about what happens when those patterns collide. When Finn’s hiding his struggles and Alex is armoring up with competence. How does that actually play out?”
Alex and I exchanged a glance.
“The testosterone injections,” she said quietly. “That’s a good example.”
Elena’s pen stilled. “Tell me about that from your perspective, Alex.”
“Finn’s been getting them since we got here. His dad’s been helping him because his hands aren’t steady enough to do them himself yet,” Alex’s voice stayed even, controlled, detached. “I found out almost two weeks ago when Nolan mentioned it in front of me. Finn hadn’t told me.”
“Why not?” Elena looked at me.
“Didn’t want her to see another broken part. The injections are proof my body doesn’t work right anymore, that I need medical intervention just to function like a normal man.” I rubbed my free hand over my face. “Another defective piece she hadn’t signed up for.”
“But she did sign up for it,” Elena said matter-of-factly. “By choosing to be with you, to come to Wyoming with you. By working through the PTSD episode, by being here right now. She’s actively choosing you, limitations and all.”
“I know that up here,” I motioned to my head with a couple of fingers, my voice tight. “But knowing it and believing it are different things.”
“Alex, how did it feel when you found out he’d been hiding this from you?”
“Like I wasn’t important enough to tell. Like he didn’t trust me to handle it, or worse—like he didn’t think I cared enough to want to know.” She glanced at me, then our hands. “My brain went immediately to rejection. He’s keeping secrets because I don’t matter, because he’s already got one foot out the door, because I’m not actually part of his life in any meaningful way.”
“That’s not—” I started, but Elena raised a hand gently.
“Let her finish.”
“I know that’s not what you meant,” Alex lifted her eyes to mine. “I know you were trying to protect me, not exclude me. But the RSD means my head doesn’t care about logic.” She looked back at Elena. “It just screams that I’m being dismissed, that I’m not enough, that he’s pulling away.”
“So Finn withholds to protect you from seeing his struggles,” Elena confirmed, “and your brain interprets that withholding as rejection and dismissal.”
“Yes,” Alex’s voice was impossibly small.
I hated she felt that way—hated I’d broken my promise to never be the cause of that pain.
“What do you do with that feeling?”
“Shove it down and move forward. Prove I’m fine and competent and don’t need anything from anyone, like always. Even Finn.” She exhaled slowly. “Which probably makes him feel like I don’t care, so he withdraws more, and the cycle continues.”
“Is that accurate, Finn?”
Shit. I’d felt it happening but never put it into words like that. “Yeah,” I covered our hands with my other. “Alex, when you go into competence mode, it feels like... like you don’t need me. Like I’m just another problem you’re managing instead of...” I stopped, throat tight. “Instead of someone you want around.”
“So you both end up more isolated, even though you’re trying to protect each other.” Elena looked at me directly. “Finn, that isolation is one of the worst things for PTSD recovery. When you withdraw to protect Alex, you’re also cutting yourself off fromsupport you actually need.”
“The cycle you’ve described—you hiding things, her reading it as rejection, both of you armoring up—it’s not just a relationship dynamic. It’s actively hindering your recovery because it keeps you from getting the support that would help manage symptoms and prevent episodes from escalating.” She made another note.
“So what do I do differently?” I asked.
“Trust Alex with the hard things, even when your instinct says to protect her. Not because it’s good relationship practice, but because isolation makes your PTSD worse.”
“And Alex, understanding your rejection sensitivity helps me help Finn communicate in ways that don’t trigger that response, which means he’s more likely to actually share what’s happening instead of withdrawing.”
Alex nodded slowly.
“The fact that you brought up the injection situation here shows you’re willing to identify what’s not working. That’s what I need—honesty about the barriers so we can address them.”
She uncrossed her legs, refocusing. “Let’s talk about support systems beyond each other. Finn, who else do you turn to when you’re struggling?”
“Dom,” I said immediately. “You. My family, though they don’t always understand what I’m dealing with.”
