"She'd lie about it. Every time. And I'd stand there and know she was lying and not be able to do anything about it." His hands are fists now, knuckles going white. "I knew, and I couldn't do anything. I was too small. Too weak."
"You were a kid." The words come before I can stop them, soft and immediate.
"Doesn't change anything." I watch him swallow, watch the tension ripple through his shoulders. "I watched him hurt her for years. Watched her lie about it. Watched her stay."
He finally looks at me. The shame's right there, the guilt, the weight of all those years carved into his face. Something cracks in my chest.
"When I saw the bruise on your hip..." He stops. His hands are shaking now—I can see them trembling on his thighs. "That's all I could see. My mom. The marks he left."
Oh.
OH.
My ribs ache and it's not for me—it's for him, for what he witnessed, for the fear he must've carried. For young Holt watching his mother lie and being too small to stop it.
"And then I thought about your ex." His voice drops even lower. "What you told me he did to you. The control. The way he made you feel small."
He looks at me again and his eyes are gutted, completely exposed, everything visible in this harsh morning light. The shame, the fear, the self-hatred—all of it right there on his face.
"I convinced myself I was no better than either of them." Sweat's beading at his hairline and he doesn't wipe it away. "That I'd hurt you. That wanting that kind of power over you—even for a minute—made me like him."
I shake my head but he keeps going—needs to get this all out.
"You said you wanted it. You asked for it. But all I could think was: my mom said she was fine too. She made excuses too." His voice cracks right there, breaks clean down the middle. "And I didn't believe her either."
Silence falls. He's staring at his hands and they're still shaking. I'm crying without meaning to, tears hot on my cheeks, and I wipe at them with the back of my hand but they keep coming.
"So I ran." His voice is barely there now. "Because I was terrified of becoming him. Terrified of being another man whohurt you and made you think it was okay. Because you are the last person in the world I want to see hurt."
I can hear his breathing—rough and uneven—and mine matching it.
"Holt, I'm so sorry that happened to you." My voice comes out thick. "That you had to see that. That you grew up thinking love looked like that."
His shoulders are so tight they're practically at his ears, braced like he's waiting for me to leave. Every line of his body screams expectation of abandonment.
"But I'm not your mother." I say it firm. Clear. "And you're not Evan. And you're sure as hell not your father."
He flinches slightly. Good.
My voice gets harder as I speak, something fierce rising in my chest. "What happened between us—that was my choice. My ask. You don't get to take that away from me because you're scared."
I lean forward. Make him look at me. Need him to see this, need him to understand. His eyes meet mine—devastated and afraid—but I don't soften. Not yet.
"I told you I was okay. I told you I wanted it. And you didn't believe me. You decided for me that I was lying or confused or broken."
He flinches harder this time. Takes the hit square in the chest.
"That's exactly what Evan did." My voice is steel now. "He decided what I wanted, what I could handle, who I was allowed to be."
I pause, letting him fully understand.
"And you did the same thing."
His face goes white. "I know—"
"Do you?" I lean closer, not letting him escape this. "Because taking away my choice to protect me from myself? That's his playbook, Holt. Not yours."
"I know." His voice is barely a whisper now. "I know. Finn—Finn made me see it. That I was taking away your choice just like he did."
