He studies my face, like he’s checking for pressure. Then he nods once and pulls the shirt over his head.
My eyes drop immediately.
The tattoo.
Ink across his hip, lines I’ve still yet to trace with my mouth and my hands or memorized in the dark. He undoes me without even trying.
And then my brain catches up to what he said earlier tonight. The way he stood in front of my parents and owned everything.
The way he said he loved me without flinching. The way he admitted he left because he was scared—not because he stopped caring. That undid me too.
He climbs into bed on one side, settling against the pillows. I head into the bathroom to wash up, splashing cold water on my face and trying to get my head in order.
When I come back out in just my boxers, he’s watching me.
I sit on the edge of the mattress, facing him. “About earlier,” I say.
He shifts slightly, propping himself up on an elbow. “With your parents?”
“Yeah.”
He nods once.
“You didn’t have to say all that.”
“I wanted to.”
I study him. “Rehab was…,” I start, then stop.
He goes very still. I haven’t talked about it properly. Not with him. Not really.
“It was brutal,” I say finally. “Not just the detox. That part sucked. But the… sitting with yourself part. The realizing how much you were running from.”
He draws his lips together in a firm line.
“I was broken,” I admit quietly. “And I didn’t know who I was without the noise. Or the alcohol. Or the version of me that could pretend everything was fine.”
Ollie’s eyes shine.
“I felt like I lost everything,” I continue. “You. The band felt different. The future felt…” I exhale. “Empty.”
“I should’ve been there,” he says immediately.
“You left,” I say, not accusing. Just stating fact.
His face crumples slightly anyway. “I left because I thought I was making it worse,” he says. “I saw what it was doing to you. The hiding. The pressure. You were drinking more. We were fighting more.” He swallows. “I was terrified that I was the thing pushing you over.”
I shake my head slowly. “You weren’t.”
“I was part of it.”
“We both were,” I counter.
Silence settles between us, but it isn’t hostile. There’s honesty in the quiet space between us.
“I didn’t know how anything could change,” he says quietly. “Not until I came out. Not until I stopped pretending. I thought… if I walked away, maybe you’d be free.”
I stare at him. “You don’t get to free me from loving you,” I say softly.
