The tension in my shoulders eases slightly. Not forgiveness yet, but relief that he gets it. That someone made him see. "Good. Because I need you to understand: I'm not fragile. I'm not going to break. And I know my own mind."
"I know you do." His voice is stronger now, more certain.
"Do you?" I hold his gaze. "Because it doesn't feel like you trust me to know what I want."
"I do. I trust you." He sounds sure for the first time since he walked in, voice solid and grounded. "I just didn't trust myself."
I nod slowly. Let that settle between us in the stifling heat. "Okay."
Silence stretches. He runs a hand through his hair—a sharp, frustrated gesture. His shirt's soaked through at the collar now, sticking to his shoulders.
"I'm sorry." His voice is rough, worn thin. "For leaving. For not talking to you. For making you feel like you did something wrong when you didn't."
I'm crying openly now, can't hold it back. Sweat and tears both running down my face and I don't bother wiping either away. "You should have told me. About your dad. About why it scared you so much."
"I know."
"I would have understood. We could have talked about it. But you just... disappeared."
"I know. I fucked up." His hands are shaking harder now—trembling on his thighs where I can see every minute movement. "I don't know how to do this, Scout."
His voice drops so low I almost miss it. "I don't know how to... not be afraid."
I reach out. Slow. My hand covers his and his fingers are cold despite the heat, despite the sweat on both of us. He goes still like he's afraid to move, afraid I'll pull away.
"You learn. We learn. Together."
He looks at our joined hands like he can't believe I'm touching him, like it might break if he moves.
"Can you forgive me?"
I breathe out slowly. Let the truth settle in my chest before I speak it, feeling the weight of it, the honesty. "I want to try."
It's honest. It's not a no. It's not a yes. It's real.
Hope flickers in his eyes. Dies. Comes back. He's fighting not to believe it, fighting not to hope.
I squeeze his hand again. Feel the calluses, feel how his fingers tighten around mine like he's anchoring himself to this moment.
We sit there in the morning light, still holding hands, and my heartbeat's starting to slow, the adrenaline finally draining away. The heat presses in from all sides but somehow it doesn't feel suffocating anymore.
"I ended it with Grant." I say it quiet. Matter-of-fact. "This morning. Before you came up."
His eyes flick to mine. Surprise washes over his face, and something else—relief, maybe. Hope. "Why?"
I shrug but my heart's pounding again, pulse kicking up in my throat. "Because he's not you. Because easy isn't what I want."
The admission hangs between us in the harsh sunlight. Real. Terrifying.
"What do you want?"
I look at him. Really look at him. The exhaustion carved into his face, sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead. The hope fighting through the fear, visible in every part of him. All of it visible in the morning light that shows everything, hides nothing.
"I want someone who's brave enough to stay. Even when it's hard. Even when they're scared."
He swallows, tension rippling through his jaw. "I'm trying to be that."
"I know." I squeeze his hand again, feel his fingers tighten around mine. "So keep trying."
