“Say it,” she demands.
“Say what?”
“What you were too afraid to write.”
I hesitate only a second.
“I want you,” I say. “Not the idea of you. Not the safe version. I want your mess, your anger, your mornings when the world feels too loud. I want you choosing me when it’s hard.”
Her breath hitches.
“I want to touch you,” I continue, voice low but controlled. “But I won’t unless you ask. I want to kiss you, but I won’t steal that either.”
Her fingers curl into my shirt.
“I want you to know,” I add, “that nothing I wrote was fantasy. It was restraint.”
Her eyes darken.
“That doesn’t make this easier,” she whispers.
“I didn’t think it would.”
The tension between us is unbearable now. Every inch charged. Every breath loaded.
“Look at me,” I say softly.
She does.
“I’m not your pen pal anymore,” I continue. “I’m the man standing here, taking everything you throw at me, because loving you has never been the problem.”
“And the lie?” she challenges.
“I’ll carry it,” I say. “But I won’t hide behind it again.”
Her grip loosens.
The storm howls outside, rattling the windows like it knows what’s happening in here.
“You hurt me,” she says.
“I know.”
“You broke something.”
“I’ll rebuild it,” I promise. “Brick by brick. Even if it takes the rest of my life.”
Her breath trembles.
“I don’t trust you,” she admits.
“Then don’t,” I say. “Not yet.”
She studies me, searching for cracks, for manipulation.
She won’t find any.
Because I’m done protecting myself.
