“You don’t say things lightly,” I whispered.
“No,” he agreed. “And I don’t fall like this. Ever.”
He pulled me into him then, our mouths meeting again—deeper this time, slower, weighted with everything we hadn’t said yet. His hands slid up my back, anchoring me there, like he was memorizing the shape of me, committing it to muscle and memory both.
We didn’t need to go further. Not right now. The closeness was enough. The truth between us more intoxicating than anything else could have been.
When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against mine, eyes closed for a moment like he was steadying himself.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For trusting me with that.”
“Thank you,” I replied, my voice soft but certain, “for being someone worth trusting.”
In the quiet that followed, wrapped in his arms, I understood something fundamental had shifted—not just between us, but inside me.
This wasn’t the beginning of something fragile.
It was the recognition of something already real.
We stayed like that, breathing each other in, suspended in the beautiful moment.
And for the first time in my life, I didn’t feel like I was living in the almost.
I felt like I was exactly where I was meant to be.
25
CONNOR
Ineeded to tell her.
The thought had been circling in my head since I'd walked through the door and seen her waiting for me. Since she'd saidI want youinstead of asking questions. Since she'd told me she was in love with me like it was the most natural thing in the world.
She deserved the truth.
All of it.
"Can I tell you something?" I asked, my voice quiet in the stillness of the room.
She shifted slightly, turning so she could see my face, her hand still resting on my chest. Her eyes were clear, open, completely focused on me in a way that made my throat tighten.
"Of course," she said.
And just like that, I knew I'd made the right decision.
Because she wasn't just listening. She wastuning in—the way she did when she lifted her camera, when she framed a shot, when she saw something most people missed. That same intense, present attention, now aimed at me.
I exhaled slowly, and as the words started to flow, I felt the weight begin to lift.
Not all at once. Not dramatically.
But like layers peeling away, one truth at a time.
"I need to go back to the beginning," I said. "Before everything."
She nodded, her thumb brushing my ribs in a slow, grounding rhythm.
"I was an only child," I continued. "Mom and dad both worked blue-collar jobs. My dad was a union electrician—the kind who could wire an entire building but couldn't figure out his own thermostat at home. My mom worked at a print shop downtown, running those big industrial machines that churned out wedding invitations and business cards. The smell of ink and paper was permanent on her clothes."
