“After I got stood up?”
He flinches. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“I was waiting for him,” I say. “And he was standing right in front of me.”
The hurt hits then—full force.
I hate that my voice cracks.
“I would’ve said yes,” I whisper.
His eyes darken. “I know that now.”
That does it.
I push past him toward the hallway, needing space, needing air—but he catches my wrist gently, firmly.
“Rory.”
I jerk my hand free. “Don’t touch me.”
He stops instantly. Puts his hands up.
“Okay,” he says. “I won’t.”
The restraint wrecks me more than anger would.
“I don’t know how to feel,” I admit. “I don’t know if I can forgive you.”
“I’m not asking you to,” he says. “I’m asking you to see me.”
I hesitate.
He steps back, giving me room, but his gaze never leaves my face.
“I crossed a line,” he continues. “But it was the only way I knew how to survive loving you without losing you.”
My chest tightens.
“And if you tell me to walk away,” he adds quietly, “I will. But I won’t pretend I didn’t mean every word.”
The storm roars outside, rattling the windows.
I look at him—really look.
The man who’s been there every morning. Every late night. Every quiet moment I didn’t even realize mattered.
“You’re an idiot,” I whisper.
His mouth quirks. “I’ve been called worse.”
I shake my head, torn, breathless, furious and aching all at once.
“This changes everything.”
“Yes,” he says. “It does.”
I turn away before he can see the tears.
