“If this is what I’m like when things get hard,” he adds, not looking at me now, “then what happens when it actually matters?”
I take another step toward him, closing the distance he keeps trying to create.
“You came here,” I say, steady. “That matters.”
“Because I didn’t know where else to go.”
“And you think that’s a bad thing?” I ask quietly.
He doesn’t answer. Because part of him does.
I can see it. I see it flash across his face and in how his shoulder slump.
“I couldn’t do what you needed,” he says again. His tone is disappointed, like that’s the piece he can’t move past.
“I didn’t need you to be perfect,” I say. “I needed help, and you gave it.”
“For five minutes,” he says.
“For as long as you could,” I correct.
He doesn’t push back right away. But I can see that he doesn’t believe me. He sinks back onto the windowsill like something in him gives out.
His hands fall still for a second, then go back to the ring, slower now, like even that takes effort.
“Part of me,” he says, staring down at his hands, “is questioning why I’d start anything with someone who’s…” He exhales. “Who’s as amazing as you are.”
My chest constricts immediately. “Ty?—”
“All I want to do,” he continues, like he has to get it out before he loses the thread, “is hold your hand. Hold you. Smell your scent. Kiss you. Hear what you’re thinking. Know what’s going on in your world.”
My throat goes dry.
“That’s it,” he says. “That’s what I want.”
He takes a beat before going on. “But when you needed me—” His jaw tightens. “I couldn’t do what I expect myself to do.”
I shake my head. “You did what you could.”
“No,” he says, not sharp, but firm. “Not in the way I should have.”
He finally looks at me, and there’s something in his eyes that makes my stomach drop.
“It makes me wonder if this is too much,” he says quietly. “And it’s not because of you. It’s because of me.”
I step closer, grounding myself before I answer. “Ty, if we’regoing to be anything—anything at all—there are two of us in it. Which means we get to talk about this.”
He moves his head, but he seems distracted. Like he hears me, but something else is louder.
“I think…” He hesitates, then pushes through it. “I think we need some space.”
The word lands heavy.
“A few days,” he adds. “To—reset. Think.”
My chest tightens, but I hold steady. “Do you feel like this has happened too fast?”
“Yes and no,” I admit. “I think this moment right now is happening very fast.”
