“I can’t promise anything,” I said suddenly, and the words came out rough because they’d been building. “I can’t promise I won’t change my mind. I can’t promise I won’t wake up tomorrow and want to run back to Calgary and pretend none of this happened.”
Wyatt’s gaze held mine. “Okay.”
“And I can’t promise you anything,” I continued, my voice shaking now. “Not forever. Not commitment. Not whatever you might be hoping for. I don’t even know what I’m capable of right now.”
Wyatt’s face softened, but his voice stayed steady. “I’m not asking you for promises.”
I swallowed hard. “I need you to hear it anyway.”
“I hear you.”
The porch boards creaked under my feet as I stepped closer, and Wyatt didn’t back away. He stayed where he was, letting me choose the distance, letting me own my own body again.
I stopped an arm’s length away.
My skin was buzzing, nerves lit up, my heart beating hard enough I could feel it in my throat. I wanted to touch him, and I was terrified of what touching him would mean, even though I’d just told him it didn’t mean forever.
My breath caught.
Wyatt’s voice came lower. “Tell me what you need right now.”
I stared at him, and the truth sat right there, simple and frightening.
“I need to feel like I’m not broken,” I whispered.
Wyatt’s eyes softened, something raw flickering under the calm. “You’re not broken.”
My laugh came out shaky. “I feel like I am.”
Wyatt took one slow step closer, stopping again before he touched me, his hands still at his sides. His voice was quiet, steady. “Can I?”
The question hit me in the chest.
I nodded.
Wyatt’s hand came up, warm and careful, and he cupped my cheek like I was something precious, like I was a person and not a problem. The contact sent a sharp wave through me, not just emotion, but sensation, like my skin had been waiting for kindness it could trust.
My eyes stung immediately.
Wyatt’s thumb moved once, slow, wiping the edge of a tear I hadn’t felt fall. His gaze held mine. “You came back.”
“I did,” I whispered.
I lifted my own hand slowly, hesitant, and touched his wrist. The skin there was warm, the veins under it real. He didn’t move. He let me do it, let me set the pace.
My fingers curled lightly around him.
Wyatt’s breath hitched, just once.
“Tessa,” he said, low.
The way he said my name made my knees go soft. I stepped closer, closing the last inch, and my hand slid up to his jaw. His stubble scraped my palm, rough and grounding. My heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might bruise my ribs from the inside.
Wyatt didn’t move.
He waited.
I tipped my face up, my breath catching as his thumb traced my cheekbone again, slow and steady, like he was reminding me I could be gentle and still be strong.
