My jaw tightens.If only you knew.
I pull us closer, my arm tightening around her shoulders. “There’s nothing to doubt,” I say, the lie sliding out smoothly, practiced. “I’m here. With you.” She hums, trusting, and I feel it like a blade under my ribs.
Back at the flat, I kick the door shut behind us and lean my forehead against it for half a second, forcing myself to breathe before turning back to her. She watches me with those eyes that see too much, even when she doesn’t know the whole truth.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say automatically. Then, because I hate myself for it, I add, “Just a long day. Tough game.”
She nods, accepting it without question, and the guilt twists tighter.
We end up on the couch, her curled into my side, legs tucked beneath her, fingers idly tracing the seam of my hoodie. The TV is muted, light flickering across her face. She looks peaceful now.
I should tell her. The words sit right there, pounding at the back of my throat.
Rose, there’s something you need to know.
I need to tell you something before it comes out another way.
I was there that night. I’m the reason you crashed your car and ended up in hospital for the night.
My chest tightens until it’s hard to draw breath. I remember the rain first. The way it blurred the lights. The way Talia screamed at me not to stop when it happened. The sound of metal hitting metal. The moment of stunned silence afterward, broken only by my own heartbeat roaring in my ears.
Drive,she’d said.
Just drive. Someone else will stop.
And I did. I hate myself for it. Every single day.
Rose shifts, lifting her head to look at me. “You’re miles away.”
I force myself back into the present, plastering on a small smile. “Sorry. Come here.”
She moves closer without hesitation, tucking herself under my chin, her breath warm against my chest. I wrap myself around her like a shield, and if I hold her tight enough, I can keep the truth from reaching her.
She fits against me too easily. Like this was always meant to be us. That’s what makes it unbearable.
Later, in bed, she’s half-asleep, limbs tangled with mine, one thigh slung over my hip. I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, every muscle locked tight. This is the moment, a voice whispers.This is when you tell her.
The room is peaceful. No distractions. Just us.
I roll onto my side, propping myself on my elbow, studying her face. The faint crease between her brows. The soft part of her mouth. The scar she doesn’t talk about but I know too well. I reach out, tracing the line of her jaw with my thumb, careful not to wake her.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper into the dark.
She stirs, murmuring my name, eyes fluttering open just a little. “What?”
My heart slams into my ribs. This is it. I open my mouth but nothing comes out. I swallow hard. “Nothing,” I say hoarsely. “Go back to sleep.”
She blinks at me for a moment, searching, then relaxes again, her trust wrapping around me.
I lie there until dawn, guilt crawling under my skin, my thoughts circling the same impossible question.
How do you tell the woman you love that you’re the reason she was broken?
The next morning, I’m a mess.
I go through the motions of making coffee, grabbing a shower and pulling on clothes, but everything feels off, as if I’m watching myself from the outside. Rose hums softly as she moves around the kitchen, barefoot and wearing one of my jerseys, my name and number emblazoned on the back, it’s domestic in a way that feels dangerous.
