“Disgusted?” The word hits like a punch to the gut. “Maya,no. It’s the complete opposite. I’ve been in love with you for eight years.”
I’ve never said those words out loud before, never let them exist anywhere except in my own head during the darkest hours of the night when I couldn’t sleep because of her.
“What?” she whispers.
“Somewhere along the way, you stopped being Emma’s best friend and became…” I stop, trying to find words adequate for what she means to me. “You became everything. But you were Em’s best friend, and I knew if I said anything, it would complicate everything. So I didn’t.”
“Eight years ago?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve…” She swallows, blinking hard. “You’ve been in love with me for eight years and never said anything?”
“I didn’t think I had the right.”
She’s shaking now, hands gripping her thighs, breath coming fast like she can’t quite get enough air. I want to reach for her, but I don’t know if I’m allowed yet. I don't know if touching her will make this better or worse.
“When I kissed you at my party?—”
“I wanted to kiss you back so badly it hurt. But you were drunk, and it wouldn’t have been right. So I left. And I hated myself for it—hated that I couldn’t have you, hated that I’d hurt you by leaving, hated all of it.”
“You kept my photo.”
"I couldn't let you go. Even knowing I should. Even knowing it was selfish. I kept it, and I looked at it, and I—" I can't finish that sentence. She already knows what I did with it, walked in on me last night with my hand wrapped around my cock and her image in my other hand like some kind of perverted prayer.
"You could've told me the next day. Could've explained why you left."
"And said what? 'Sorry I rejected you, but I'm in love with you and have been for years'? That would've gone over well."
"It would've been better than letting me think you were disgusted by me!"
Her voice cracks on the last word, and the tears spill over, tracking down her cheeks.
"I know. You're right. I fucked up." I run my hands through my hair, pulling at the roots in frustration at my own stupidity. "But by the time I realized I should've explained, you'd stopped answering my texts, stopped visiting. It was clear you wanted space, and I wasn't going to push."
She's quiet for a long moment, processing, and I watch the emotions play across her face.Pain. Confusion. Understanding. More pain.
"So at my party, you rejected me to protect me."
"Yes."
"And you've been in love with me this whole time."
"Yes."
"Then why, when I showed up here… why didn't you say something then?"
"Because you were falling apart. You'd been raped, fired, and lost everything. The last thing you needed was me adding my feelings to the pile." I meet her eyes, holding her gaze even though it hurts. "You needed help, support, someone steady. Not someone complicating things by confessing his feelings."
"So you agreed to the arrangement knowing you were already in love with me?"
"I agreed because you needed to reclaim your body, needed to heal. And if that meant I had to pretend my feelings didn't exist, then that's what I'd do."
"That's why you've been so careful. So patient."
"You deserved someone who'd let you set every boundary, make every choice. Your trauma isn't mine to center." I reachover and take her hand, threading our fingers together. "And I’d do it again.”
She's crying so hard her shoulders shake, and I pull her across the center console without thinking, just needing her closer, needing to hold her while she falls apart.
