That was how I saw him now.
Not as a collection of facts or confessions. Not as the sum of his worst moments or the violence that had shaped him. But as a man holding himself still out of respect for my choice. A man who understood the weight of presence. A man who knew when not to reach.
“I’m seeing you,” I said again, quieter this time. “The way I always do. Through what’s actually there. Not what people think they’re supposed to see.”
“I don’t need you to be clean or uncomplicated,” I continued. “I just needed to understand who you are when you had choices.”
His eyes lifted to mine fully now.
“So, I want to say something,” I went on, my voice steady even as my chest felt too full. “And I need you to hear it without arguing.”
A faint huff of breath left him. “That’s going to be hard.”
“I know,” I said, and brushed my thumb along his jaw. The touch was light. Intentional. It made his throat work as he swallowed.
“You were a child,” I said. “You were trapped in a system that removed consent before you even knew what consent was. You weren’t given options—you were given corridors with locked doors at the end of them.”
His eyes closed briefly.
“And when you finally had choices,” I continued, “you chose to leave. You chose to protect others. You chose not to disappear into what they made you. You chose to tell me the truth even when it might cost you safety, control, and certainty.”
He shook his head slightly. “You don’t know what I’ve?—”
I leaned in, resting my forehead against his, cutting off the protest before it could take shape.
“I know enough,” I said softly. “And what matters to me isn’t what they forced you to do. It’s what you did once you were free to decide.”
His hands came up then, gripping my hips. Anchoring himself.
“Good men aren’t born,” I said. “They’re decided. Over and over again. Especially when it would be easier not to be.”
I felt his breath shudder against my cheek.
For a long moment, neither of us moved.
The sexual energy between us pulsed—quiet but insistent. My body was acutely aware of his, of the way his grip warmed, of how close his mouth was to mine.
But this—this mattered even more.
“I don’t love you in spite of your darkness,” I said. “I love you because you didn’t let it own you.”
When he opened his eyes, they were wet.
Not tears falling. Just held there. Barely contained.
“No one’s ever said it like that,” he murmured.
“I know.”
I kissed him then.
It was slow. Deliberate. My mouth brushing his, a whisper of contact rather than a claim. His lips parted instinctively, breath mingling with mine, and the intimacy of that small sound sent heat curling low in my belly.
He kissed me back just as softly, reverently, like he was afraid of breaking the moment if he took too much.
Our mouths lingered together, unhurried, exchanging breath more than pressure. When his hand slid up my back, the contact was possessive in its tenderness, fingers spreading as if memorizing me all over again.
“I’m here,” I whispered against his mouth.
