I laughed, then sobered, meeting his gaze again. “I am enjoying it too.”
His eyes softened, and for a moment I had the distinct impression that he wanted to touch my hand again, yet he didn’t. He waited like he was still trying to make sure I felt in control of the pace.
It was considerate. It was also maddening in the sweetest way.
“What about you?” I asked, because the instinct to know him was suddenly stronger than my shyness. “What did you want when you were a child?”
Braxton blinked. The question clearly surprised him.
He leaned back slightly, thoughtful. “To be liked.”
The simplicity of the answer made my throat tighten.
“Weren’t you liked?” I asked softly.
He let out a quiet laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Sometimes I was, but I didn’t really believe it. I was the kid who tried too hard. The one who smiled too much, talked too much, offered too much.”
I stared at him, seeing the vulnerability for the first time. “Why would you think that?”
He shrugged, then hesitated. “My family is not… unkind. But they are intense and believe that everything is a matter of reputation and expectation. Carly could host a gala at twelve. Icould barely survive lunch without someone correcting how I held a fork.”
“That sounds exhausting,” I murmured.
“It was,” he admitted. “And when I got older, there were… rules. The right schools, the right friends, the right people to date.”
My stomach tightened at the word date, but I forced myself to stay calm. “Did you want that?”
He looked at me like the answer was obvious. “No, but if you don’t fit in, you become a project. People try to fix you and make you more appropriate. More polished and more acceptable to their standards. I was always a bit of a problem to manage.”
The words landed hard, not because they were dramatic, but because they were true in a way I recognized.
“That’s sad,” I whispered before I could stop myself.
Braxton’s gaze sharpened on mine. “Yes.”
The word sat between us, heavy and simple.
“You aren’t like that,” he added quickly, as if he needed to make sure I understood. “You don’t make me feel like I have to be a certain way to be accepted. You make me feel… normal.”
I laughed softly. “I don’t know if I am normal.”
“You are real,” he corrected. “There is a difference.”
I felt warmth and relief with a quiet sense of being seen.
Behind us, Lucy called into the kitchen, “Jane, we need to talk about the rehearsal dinner. Kitty is spiraling again.”
Braxton’s mouth curved. “Your life is a series of interruptions.”
“It is,” I confirmed.
He hesitated, then lifted his hand slightly, palm up, offering without pushing. “Before we go back into chaos, can I hold your hand again.”
My breath caught.
It was such a simple question. Such a small courtesy. It felt like trust.
“Yes,” I said.
