“No,” I agreed. “But I know enough to know you’re a good man.”
The words landed between us like something sacred.
Connor looked away first, his gaze fixing somewhere over my shoulder. For a moment, I worried I’d gone too far—said something that brushed against an old wound instead of honoring it.
Then he swallowed.
“No one’s ever said that to me like that,” he admitted. “Not without wanting something from it.”
“I’m not asking you to be anything,” I said. “I just wanted you to know that I see the man you are when you’re not performing or protecting or planning.”
His hand tightened at my waist, anchoring.
“That matters,” he said quietly. “More than you know.”
Something inside my chest loosened, like a knot I hadn’t realized I’d been holding for him.
I leaned in and pressed a kiss to his collarbone, slow and reverent. He responded immediately, his other arm coming around me, pulling me closer until there was no space left to doubt where I belonged in that moment.
We kissed again—unhurried, exploratory. His mouth was warm and familiar now, his breath steady against my skin. When he kissed the corner of my mouth, it felt intentional. Gentle.
“You said earlier,” he murmured, forehead resting against mine, “that there were things you wanted to tell me.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have to,” he added quickly. “Not if?—”
“I want to,” I interrupted. “That’s the difference.”
He nodded once, like he understood that distinction intimately.
I shifted slightly, settling more comfortably against him, my head resting on his chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath my ear, a metronome I hadn’t known I needed.
“I’ve spent a long time living in the almosts,” I began.
He didn’t interrupt.
“I didn’t realize it until recently. I thought I was being careful. Thought I was being smart. But really, I was … withholding. From myself. From other people.”
His fingers traced slow, absent patterns on my arm, encouraging without pressure.
“My mom was depressed when I was growing up,” I continued. “Not in a dramatic way. Not in a way that got attention. It was quieter than that.”
He made a low sound of understanding, not a word, just presence.
“She was there, technically. She did the things she had to do. But she was often … elsewhere. Some days she’d be warmand engaged, almost herself. Other days she’d drift, like she was underwater. You could talk to her and never quite know if she was really hearing you.”
I swallowed.
“So, I learned to read the room early. Learned to gauge how much of myself was allowed on any given day. Whether I could be loud or needed to be small. Whether wanting something would feel like too much.”
Connor’s arm tightened around me slightly, protective in a way that didn’t feel suffocating.
“My dad was … fine,” I said. “Nice. Dependable. But he didn’t intervene. He didn’t step in when things got heavy. He just worked more. Stayed busy. Like if he ignored it long enough, it would resolve itself.”
“That leaves a kid alone in it,” Connor said quietly.
“Yes,” I whispered. “Exactly.”
