He tells me everything. About the confession Chris made over bourbon. Vicente using sex as control, shaping Chris into someone who craved violence because it was the only version of being valued he knew. How afterward, in bed, Chris hesitated. Wyatt saw it and let it go because he didn’t fully grasp what he was seeing.
Chris pushed through, insisted he could handle it. Was present at first. Careful, tender, real. Then Wyatt asked him to go harder, and Chris went somewhere else. Hands around Wyatt’s throat. Commands in a voice that wasn’t his.
My therapist brain traces the causal chain before I can stop it: Chris stated a boundary. Wyatt honored it. And then Chris overrode his own limit—initiated, asked for consent, pushed himself past the line he’d drawn. He was present until he wasn’t. And the trigger wasn’t force—it was Wyatt asking for more, and Chris dissociating into a conditioned response.
I don’t say any of this yet. But I can’t unhear it.
After—Chris surfacing, horrified. Wyatt telling him to leave and Chris going dark.
By the time he finishes, my coffee is cold and untouched. Wyatt hasn’t let go of my hand.
“I’m angry,” he says finally. “At myself for not stopping when I saw him pull back. For asking for more—” His voice drops. “And my body didn’t care about any of it. I came while he was choking me. While he wasn’t even there. What does that make me?”
The shame in his voice coats every word.
I stand, take his face in my hands, tilting it up until he has to meet my eyes.
“It makes you a person whose body responded to stimulation under extreme circumstances. That’s physiology, not consent.” I hold his gaze. “But I heard what you just said, Wyatt. You saw him pull back and you didn’t stop. You asked for more when he was already walking a line. Those aren’t things I can just smooth over for you.”
“You shouldn’t have to shrink me.”
“If you had a cut, I’d give you stitches. This is no different.” I hold his gaze. “Let me help. That’s what I do. I can’t absolve you, but I can share the burden.”
His eyes are wet. He blinks it back, but not before I see.
“I should have talked to him.” His voice is hollow. “I should have made him stay, made him explain, made him—something. But I couldn’t look at him. I couldn’t—” He drags his free hand over his face. “And now I don’t know where he is.”
I pull out my phone and dial Chris’s number. It rings once, then cuts to voicemail.
“I’ve been trying all night,” Wyatt says quietly. “Calling, texting. Nothing.”
I try again anyway. Same result.
“He turned his phone off. Or it’s dead.”
His jaw tightens. We both know it’s not a dead battery. Chris was told to leave, and then he went dark. Phone off, unreachable. He was sent away believing he’d become the thing he fears most.
I set my phone down, fear coiled tight in my chest.
“I’m not angry at Chris,” I say, and Wyatt blinks. “He didn’t run. You told him to leave.”
“I know,” he says quietly. “I know I did.”
“And I’m not saying that to punish you. You were hurt and you were scared, and I understand why.” I hold his gaze. “But we need to be honest about what happened before we figure out what to do next.”
His jaw works. He doesn’t argue.
“Now tell me where your head is. Because I can see the fear in your eyes, and it goes beyond ‘where did he go.’“
His jaw works. His eyes are wet, and this time he doesn’t blink it back.
“What if he doesn’t come back?” The words come out raw.
I wait. Because that’s not really the question.
“What if he—” He stops. Tries again. “What if he does something?—”
And there it is. The fear he can’t look at directly. The one he’s been circling all night.
