“Hmm?” I respond, hearing the concern he’s trying to keep out of his voice.
“Did York know… that you’re…?”
He doesn’t finish because I’ve already started frowning, telling him I know what he means. My eyes drop to the edge of the bed, feeling what I need to say weighing down on me. “Yeah, he did. Said he’d been keeping track of me since he found out he’d impregnated my mom. The way he talked about it… about her… H-he… Uh, he-”
“Hey.”
I force my gaze back to his.
“It doesn’t change anything about you, okay?” His eyes glimmer with hope, that I believe his words. “That’s not on you.”
It’s true; he’s so deeply right that it makes my heart ache. But there’s more to this, and I need him to know.
I pull the chair closer and sit. Not as far away as before, closer to the bed and to him.
“There’s something I need to say,” I begin.
He stills. “Okay.”
I take a breath. “I understand why you did it,” I say.
His eyes sharpen instantly. The shift in the room is immediate, subtle but unmistakable. “I-” he starts.
I shake my head. “Let me finish.”
He stops. But the tension in him doesn’t.
“I understand why,” I repeat. “The fear. The need to know. To protect.” My voice doesn’t shake, doesn’t waver. “And you were wrong.” It’s heavy and final.
His jaw tightens. He nods once, accepting it.
“I know.”
“I need you to hear it anyway,” I maintain. “Because it matters.”
“It does,” he agrees quietly.
I hold his gaze, don’t let him look away. I can’t look away from him now.
“You don’t get to make choices about me without me,” I continue. “Not my body. Not my life. Not my future.”
Another nod, slower this time.
“You don’t get to decide what I need,” I add. “Even if you think you’re right.”
“I don’t,” he says. No hesitation or argument.
The tension in my ribs loosens slightly.“But…” I pause, taking another breath. “You didn’t think you were entitled to me.”
His eyes flicker with brief confusion.
“Not the way he did.”
Understanding hits him hard. The comparison hangs there, ugly and unavoidable.
“I never should have compared you two. You’re not him,” I finish.
His throat works once. “I know I’m not,” he adds carefully. “But I also know I crossed a line I don’t get to just-”
