And God.
When had Hank ever done that?
Hank meant well. He always meant well. But every difficult conversation with him somehow became logistical. Practical. Solutions and timelines and calm reassurances.
We’ll figure it out.
It’ll be okay.
Don’t worry so much.
But sometimes you didn’t want things solved.
Sometimes you just wanted someone strong enough to stand next to you in the mess.
Kane felt like that kind of man.
The kind who didn’t avoid trouble. The kind who stepped toward it. The kind who put himself between you and whatever might hit.
Literally.
I’d spent years telling myself I didn’t need that. Didn’t want traditional gestures or protective instincts or a man who felt responsible for my safety.
Independent woman. Equal footing. No damsels.
But independence had quietly morphed into loneliness somewhere along the way. Into doing everything myself because it was easier than admitting sometimes I didn’t want to.
Walking beside Kane, it hadn’t felt patronizing.
It had felt … comforting.
Safe in a different way than Hank’s politeness ever had.
Protected.
And the truth slid in before I could soften it.
Maybe that was what I actually wanted.
A real man.
The thought startled me.
Not in a macho, outdated stereotype way. But in the sense of someone steady and capable and unafraid of the world’s sharp edges. Someone who didn’t shrink from confrontation or difficulty or danger.
Someone who didn’t need me to pretend everything was fine all the time.
Someone strong enough that I didn’t have to be.
I swallowed, staring into the dark.
What would my parents say if I brought Kane home?
The answer came immediately.
Horror.
Polite horror, maybe. Manners and careful smiles, but horror all the same.
