My chest caves. I was ready for a fight. I wasn't ready for him to agree.
"Why didn't you think about it?" The question comes out small.
He thinks for a minute, then shrugs. "I compartmentalize stuff."
"What's that mean, Red?"
He scoots closer, so we're shoulder to shoulder, and laces his hand through mine. "My professional life has always been a separate box. Patients, staff, schedules, etc., all stay in that box. You're the only person who has crossed into every box. So I didn't connect the dots that a new person sitting at the front desk would feel like a threat to you. I should have. I didn't. That's my failure, not yours."
The admission should make me feel better. It means he wasn't hiding her. He simply didn't think she mattered enough to mention her. But the sting of secrecy is hard to release. And I messed up. I took something innocent and made it into a molehill.
I press the heels of my hands to my eyes. "I hate this. I hate feeling like my brain twists everything into proof that I'm going to lose you."
"You're not losing me."
"But I could." The words slip out before I can stop them. "If I keep being this…this mess of a woman... If I keep exploding over normal things, like an assistant, or your boundaries, or you trying to protect your work..."
He's quiet for a long beat.
I turn my head toward him. "Red?—"
He puts his finger over my shaking lips. "We're going to work on that together. I'm going to help you learn to separate perception from reality. And I'm going to stop assuming what's obvious to me is obvious to you. How does that sound?" He lowers his hand.
My eyes burn. "Is that possible?"
"Yes. I know we can get there. But it starts with transparency from both of us. I'll tell you about staff changes and other things that touch my daily life. And in return, I want you to tell me when something triggers you before it turns into photos or pins or broken mirrors."
The bargain feels fragile, like glass I'm afraid to touch. But it's also the first real bridge anyone's ever tried to build with me instead of burning it.
I nod slowly. "Okay."
He exhales, and the tension in his shoulders eases a fraction.
Silence settles between us, softer this time. I'm still wrung out and hollow, but, strangely, I also feel seen. Not as the dramatic girlfriend, nor as the patient, but as the whole messy package we both know I am.
I want him to hold me. I want his arms, his warmth, the press of his body saying everything his words can't. I shift closer on instinct, reaching for his hand.
He doesn't pull away, but he doesn't pull me in either. His fingers close around mine, gentle, but he keeps the distance.
My heart stutters. "Red?"
He quietly asserts, "Not yet, Bluebird. We have work to do to get back there. And not because I don't want you as much as you want me right now."
The rejection is soft, but it lands hard. I swallow the hurt and agree, "Okay."
He squeezes my hand. "Soon. When it's not a deflection. When it's just us wanting each other, and not avoiding something harder."
Tears prick again. I don't fight them this time. They slide hot down my cheeks.
He lets me cry and holds me. For once, the emptiness doesn't feel like abandonment. It feels like space to breathe, to rebuild, and to be seen without having to perform.
We sit like that for a long time, his other arm around me, hands linked, breath in sync, and the morning light creeping under the blinds in thin gold bars.
We don't have sex or touch beyond his careful hold. But he's here. And for the first time in days, that's enough.
Red shifts first, pressing a soft kiss to the top of my head. He murmurs, "I need to make a call. Stay here. I'll be right back."
I nod against him, reluctant to let go, but he disentangles gently and stands. He grabs his phone from the nightstand and steps into the hallway, closing the bedroom door behind him with a soft click.
