“I know I broke my promise to you,” I say quietly. “And as much as it hurt you, it hurts me every day. It’s the kind of mistake that changes a man, Andi. I should have stood by you no matter what. I should have trusted you. I didn’t… and I hate myself for it.”
I hold her gaze, steadying my voice with pure will. “I will spend every day of the rest of my life doing whatever it takes to make it up to you. You’re worth it. And I will never make that mistake again.”
She’s quiet for a beat, then her voice comes soft, full of emotion. “Is that why you never thought your family accepted your career choice?”
I nod. “Yeah. I chose wrong once. I hurt my dad. I blamed Brandon. I got marked as the screwup.” I force out a humorless breath. “So when I didn’t go into development like my dad, when I chose something else, everybody just assumed I’d fail again.”
“You assumed you’d fail,” she corrects gently, and it rattles me how easily she sees through me.
I swallow. “Yeah. I did.” I look at her. “It doesn’t make it right. It doesn’t excuse any of it. But I need you to understand my reaction, because it wasn’t you. It was an old fear wearing your face.”
She studies me for a long moment, those sharp eyes boring straight through every defense I’ve ever had. Finally, she nods once. “Yes. I understand better now.” Her voice dips. “I still wish you had listened to me.”
“Andi, I should have?—”
She lifts a hand. “Luke, wait.” Her breath shakes. “I wish you had let me explain that night, but I should’ve told you before then.” Her eyes shine, and she’s fighting not to break. “I wanted to. I really did. But I was afraid. I kept putting it off because I wanted… a little more time with you. I was selfish. You should never have heard it from someone else first. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you when I realized how important you were to me.”
Tears glisten in her eyes, and the wordselfishdoesn’t belong to her, not with everything she is.
“Andi, you’re not selfish,” I say, shaken. “You’re the kindest, most giving person I’ve ever met. How can you call yourself selfish?”
“Because you had a right to know,” she whispers. “If you wanted to be with me, you had a right to hear from me what you were getting into.” Her voice splinters. “I just wanted you a little longer. Every day, I wanted one more day.”
My chest aches like it’s being crushed.
She wipes at tears as soon as they fall, trying to keep control. “I never thought it would come out the way it did. But with my twenty-eighth birthday coming up, I knew it might surface somehow.” She swallows hard. “And I’m sorry if I caused problems between you and your dad.”
“Baby, no,” I say immediately. “None of this is your fault.” I lean in just enough for her to feel the truth in it. “I don’t know what happened, why they put you in that hospital, but I believe you. Unconditionally. You told me it wasn’t what it looked like, and that’s all I need.”
For a second, she goes still, like she can’t process the words.
Then she breaks.
The sobs hit her so hard that it was like something finally gave way inside her. I pull her into my arms and hold her tight while she shakes, while she cries like she’s been holding her breath for weeks.
Then something inside me gives way, sharp and silent, as I hold her. Her sobs aren’t just about tonight—they’re the sound of years unraveling all at once. I feel it in the way she clings to me, desperate and unguarded, as if she’s spent a lifetime bracing for disappointment and finally let herself collapse. Each shuddering breath is a confession of birthdays spent alone, of holidays passed in silence, and of learning to swallow pain because there was no one to hear it.
I realize, with a helpless ache, that I am witnessing the breaking of the hope she’s built piece by fragile piece. She let herself believe—just for a moment—that she was safe, that she was loved, that she belonged. And now, in myarms, she’s mourning not just us, but every promise the world ever broke to her.
Guilt claws at my chest. I want to say something, anything, to make it better, but the words die in my throat. I can only hold her tighter, feeling her heartbreak echo in my own body. I ache for all the years she carried this alone, for every time she needed someone and found only emptiness. I want to promise her she’ll never be alone again, but right now, all I can do is let her grief shake through both of us, and hope that my arms are strong enough to keep her from falling apart completely.
I want to say something, anything, to make it better, but all I can do is hold her tighter, feeling her heartbreak echo in my own chest. The heaviness of her grief settles between us, heavy and familiar, and I understand—maybe for the first time—how much she’s carried, and how easily it can all be lost.
It hurts to feel her hurt, and I hate myself for ever letting her go. And as I hold her, I know I’ll do anything to keep her from ever feeling this alone again.
When her crying slows, and she’s still pressed to me, I can’t stop the words.
“I have no right to ask this,” I whisper, voice wrecked. “But I’m asking, anyway.” I pull back just enough to see her face. “Please forgive me. Please take me back.If you’re selfish, then I’m greedy, because I can’t let you go. I miss you so much I can’t breathe.” My throat tightens. “I love you. I love you so damn much.”
She pulls away slowly, and I feel it like losing warmth. She looks down at our hands as she threads her fingers through mine, as if she needs the contact but can’t risk eye contact.
I watch her face and know I’m not going to like what comes next.
She inhales, steadying herself. “I do forgive you. And I want you to forgive your father. He made a mistake, but he’s a good man. He did it for his family, and it’s hard for me to fault him for that.”
She pauses, and my whole body tightens.
“Why do I hear a ‘but’ in there?” I ask, trying to keep my voice calm even as panic claws up my throat.
