Even though few words were exchanged that night after the wedding, once our clothes came off, we were all naked to the core, hearts exposed, trauma exposed. Every kiss, every touch, ever single thrust inside each other was a confession.
“I didn’t know what else to do,” I say.
He shakes his head then looks me square in the eye. “I know what that night meant to me. But don’t think for a second I missed what it was doing to you too. Or to her. I remember every goddamn second, Wyatt, every single word.”
The air leaves my lungs at the reminder. Words did come, later in the dark, when we were finally still. They came in whispers between the three of us, but it felt like we were different people. The bare, naked kernels of ourselves that don’t really feel like us because it’s not who we show the world. That night was an anomaly. Maybe it’s Nina’s superpower to get broken men to bare their souls, and we were both under her influence.
“I was there too.” I search his eyes hoping he sees his pain reflected in mine. How much it means to be seen, to be understood.
We fall silent.
And here’s the thing: we are not the kind of men who do this.
We aren’t the kind of men who speak feelings out loud, who stand this close without it being about control or challenge.
But I’ve met his mother. I’ve seen what that family does with emotion. They’re the kind of people who bury it, sharpen it, turn it into something that cuts. If Chris learned anything growing up Longo, it wasn’t how to ask for help.
I had to learn the hard way that shutting down doesn’t protect you, it just delays the bleeding. Most men never figure that out. They leave the soft parts gagged and buried where no one can see them.
I’m still learning. But I know something now.
Softness bends before it breaks.
And Chris is slowly, painfully starting to learn that too, in the space between me and the boxes I packed with care.
He steps forward, shoulders squared like he’s bracing for a blow.
We’re eye to eye. His jaw is so tight he might spit out diamonds in a moment, but his gaze is a churning mess of conflict.
“You gonna hit me?” I ask.
“No.”
“Good. Because I don’t want to hit you back.”
Another step and we’re nearly touching. The air tightens, hot with things we’re not saying. Regret. Hunger. Fear.
He looks at the room again. At the already labeled boxes stacked by the door, at the fresh ones still leaning in a flattened stack under the window. At the walls where Nina’s art leans beneath the nails where it used to hang, ready for shipping crates. “You’re a fucking idiot.”
“I know. For the record, this isn’t me giving up. Just... trying not to make it worse.”
He swallows. His gaze drops to the box of books. The flaps have reopened on their own, a casket unwilling to stay buried. He picks up one of her books—The Body Keeps the Score. I wonder if he’s ever read it.
“She said she wanted to heal,” I say, taking a risk by bringing up that whispered conversation that we probably all believed would remain in that bed in Los Angeles. “You said you wanted to help her. Maybe that means letting go of control.”
He looks up from the book. “That’s rich coming from the guy who just bubble-wrapped her apartment.”
His hand tightens on the book. Mine tightens on the box flap. He’s not wrong.
I could kiss him. That’s the fucked up thing.
Not to comfort him. Not to fix anything. Because he just saw through me the way Nina did, and something in me doesn’t want to let that go.
Our eyes lock. The moment is charged, but not with desire. Just understanding.
I heave a sigh. “I could use a beer. Want to sit?”
And this time, he does. Like he wants to know what it feels like to finally be still.
