"I know you didn't know. That's the point." I took a breath. Let it out. "You were so busy protecting yourself that you didn't notice you were destroying me."
He looked like I'd gutted him. Good. He should know. He should understand exactly what his fear had cost.
But I was tired of being angry. Tired of being hurt. Tired of wanting someone who was standing right in front of me and still somehow out of reach.
"I'm still leaving," I said.
His whole body went rigid.
"Unless you can promise me something."
He waited. I could see him bracing himself, preparing for whatever blow I was about to deliver.
"Promise you'll talk to me." I held his gaze. "When you're scared, when you're pulling away, tell me. Don't just disappear. I can't survive another week of wondering what I did wrong."
"I can try."
"Try isn't good enough." I shook my head. "I need you to actually do it."
The silence stretched between us. I watched him struggle with it: the weight of what I was asking, the vulnerability it required, everything he'd spent his life building walls against.
"Okay." The word came out rough. Certain. "I'll do it."
I searched his face, looking for a lie, an escape clause, a crack where the truth might show.
I didn't find one.
"Okay," I said softly.
He cupped my face in his hands. His warm, slightly calloused palms sent electricity cascading down my spine.
"Okay?" he asked.
"Okay."
He kissed me.
I'd imagined this moment a hundred
times—in the quiet hours when he was at work, during the dark nights when I couldn't sleep, in every stolen glance and accidental touch that had built up between us like pressure behind a dam.
None of my imaginings came close to reality.
His mouth was hungry and desperate, like he'd been starving for weeks, and I was finally something he could taste. I gasped against his lips, and he swallowed the sound, his tongue sliding against mine, his hands tangling in my hair.
I kissed him back with all I had: every lonely night on that couch, every morning I'd watched him leave without looking at me, every moment I'd spent wanting him and convincing myself it was foolish.
He backed me against the dresser, and a stack of folded clothes tumbled to the floor. I laughed against his mouth. Actually laughed, for the first time in a week. His response was a sound that was part groan, part sob.
"I'm sorry," he said against my jaw. "I'm so fucking sorry."
"Stop apologizing and keep kissing me."
He did.
We eventually made it to the bed.
He laid me down like I was something precious, something breakable, and for once, I didn't mind being handled with care. I'd spent my life being arranged by others, posed and positioned where I was supposed to be. But this was different. This was him learning and discovering me, touching me like I was a gift he couldn't believe he'd been given.
