I understood that on a soul-deep level. We'd both built our coping mechanisms from childhood trauma. His was order, mine was chaos. And somehow we'd found a way to make them complement each other.
"Here." Henny slid a plate across the counter a few minutes later. Three perfect golden pancakes, steam rising from them. "Syrup is in the cabinet."
I retrieved it, then grabbed forks and sat at the counter while he made his own plate. We ate in silence. The normalcy of the moment settled the jagged edges inside me.
“This was really good. I’m happy my nightmare and oversharing didn’t scare you away.” I forced out a laugh to cover my insecurity.
While I wouldn’t let my past be the end of us, I knew it was hard to hear. And he’d not only heard it, but he’d understood, then had gone out of his way to distract me when sleep wasn’t an option.
Henny sat down his fork and looked at me directly. "Pip, I grew up in the mafia. My family tree is full of murderers, thieves, and sociopaths. You think your past scares me?"
"It should."
"Well, it doesn't." He reached across the counter and took my hand. "You survived horrible things and came out the other side. That's having strength."
"I became a killer."
"You became a survivor who found a way to feel valuable in a world that tried to tell you weren't. And now you're here, eating pancakes at four in the morning, letting me take care of you. That takes more courage than anything those assholes ever did."
I had to look away because it was too much. "You have a habit of saying exactly what I need to hear."
"Good. Someone should." He stood and moved around the counter to stand beside me. "And for the record, you telling me about your childhood doesn't change how I feel about you. It just makes me understand you better."
"How do you feel about me?" The question escaped before I could stop it.
Henny's expression softened. "For one, I am proud to be the man you wanted. Secondly, I’m falling in love with you. Past, present, nightmares and all. I want all of you."
The words hung in the air between us. He'd said them so simply, like it was obvious. Like it was a fact rather than the biggest mindfuck of my life.
"You love me," I repeated, testing the words.
“I said falling, but yes.”
"Even knowing what you do now. Even knowing I'm broken."
"I’ll repeat myself from earlier—you're not broken." His hands framed my face. "You've been coping in the way you know best. There's a difference."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to list all the reasons he was wrong, all the evidence that I was permanently damaged. But looking at his face, at the absolute certainty in his eyes, I couldn't.
Maybe he was right. Maybe healing was possible. Maybe I didn't have to be defined by my worst moments forever.
"I love you. In case that wasn't obvious."
Henny smiled, genuine and warm. "It was a little obvious. But I like hearing it anyway."
He kissed me then, soft and sweet, tasting like maple syrup and home. When we pulled apart, I felt steadier than I had since waking from the nightmare.
"More pancakes?" Henny asked.
"Yes, please."
He made another batch while I cleaned our plates, and we fell back into the easy rhythm we'd developed over the weeks. This was what normal looked like, I realized. Not the absence of problems or pain but having someone who stood beside you through them.
By the time we finished eating, the sky outside was starting to lighten. We'd eaten our way through half a dozen pancakes each and talked about everything and nothing. My childhood felt less like an open wound and more like a scar. Still there but no longer bleeding.
"What do you want to do with the rest of the morning?" Henny asked as he loaded the dishwasher.
"Stay here with you." I wrapped my arms around him from behind, chin on his shoulder. "Maybe watch something mindless on TV. Fall asleep on the couch at an absurd hour."
