“I got out,” I continue, words coming faster now, “and I rebuilt, then he found me again, and he started pressing, and I didn’t tell you because I knew what you’d do.”
“What?” Ethan asks, voice tight.
“You’d go after him,” I say. “You’d make it bigger. You’d put yourself in his line of sight, and then he’d use me to hurt you or use you to trap me, and I couldn’t handle that.”
His jaw works. “So you ran.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t trust me.” It isn’t an accusation, it’s a fact.
“I didn’t trust your methods,” I answer, and my voice shakes. “I trusted that you care, and that’s the problem, because you care so hard you forget where my line is.”
He closes his eyes for a second, then opens them. “That’s fair.”
I blink at him. “What.”
“That’s fair,” he repeats. He steps closer then stops again, and he keeps his voice low. “I crowd you. I decide fast. I push when I think I’m protecting you. I don’t always know where to stop.”
My throat tightens again, but this time it’s not anger, it’s something worse.
“Why?” I ask.
His gaze locks on mine. “Because I love you,” he says, and he says it like a truth he’s been carrying, not a line. “Because I’m afraid of losing you, and when I’m afraid I want control, and I use control as a way to manage my own panic.”
I stare at him, and it feels like the room gets too small even though he isn’t touching me.
“You took it so well,” I say, and my voice breaks. “I left, and I ghosted, and you didn’t chase me, and you didn’t punish me, andyou didn’t show up until a hospital called. I keep thinking you should’ve hated me, but you didn’t.”
His mouth tightens. “I didn’t take it well,” he corrects. “I just didn’t turn it into a weapon.”
I swallow. “I was a bitch.”
“No,” he says, immediately. “You were scared, and you were trying to survive. I can be hurt and still understand that.”
I look away then back, because the urge to run rises even now, and I hate it.
He watches me. “What do you want from me?”
“Not ownership,” I say. “Not a cage. Not surveillance dressed up as care.”
He nods. “Okay.”
“And partnership,” I add. “If you’re in my life, you’re in it with consent, and I get a say, and you don’t decide my fear is an inconvenience.”
“I can do that,” he says.
I shake my head once. “Say it better.”
He doesn’t flinch. “I will listen,” he says. “I will ask. I will stop when you tell me to stop, even when I hate it.”
I stare at him. “And Gavin.”
Ethan’s eyes harden, then he reins it back. “We handle it smart. We don’t do impulsive. We document, we plan, we use legal and security channels, and you lead the parts that affect your life.”
I swallow. “You mean that.”
“Yes,” he replies.
