My eyes widen, still chewing.
“You… noticed that?”
He shrugs, suddenly a little shy. “I notice a lot of things.”
I clear my throat. “My mom used to make these. When I was a kid. Not often—she wasn’t around much. But when she was… it’d be egg mayos and whatever other topping we had and toasted bread on the stove in a pan.”
He doesn’t say anything, just keeps chewing, watching me.
“It’s stupid,” I add quickly. “It just made me feel like someone was there. That’s all.”
“It's not stupid,” he says. “What was she like when she was around? Your mom?”
The question catches me off guard. No one ever asks for more when I mention my mom. They usually just nod awkwardly and change the subject.
I nod once, look down at my sandwich. I don't mean to keep talking, but the words sort of sneak out.
“She was always coming and going. I never knew what mood she'd be in, or if she'd come home at all. But when she did… and she made these… it felt like something solid.”
The silence stretches. Not awkward. Just full. I take another bite to fill the space.
Troy exhales through his nose, the kind of breath you take when you're about to either make a joke or say something real. And when he finally speaks, it's not a joke.
“I don't think I'm built for relationships.”
The words drop into the space between us.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “That was a sharp left.”
He gives a soft laugh, but it fades quickly. “I mean it. This stuff, connection, closeness. All the ways you can fuck it up and really hurt someone… I don't know if I'm built for that.”
I chew my bite more slowly now. Not because I need to, but because I suddenly don't know what to say.
“And I swore—Ifuckingswore—I'd never be that selfish.” He takes a deep breath. “But relationships? They make you selfish. You have to be sometimes. You have to ask for what you want, put yourself first occasionally.” He's quiet a moment, eyes flicking toward the window. “My whole life has been about taking care of people. Mom, Tara, sometimes even my dad when he decided to show up again. And I don't know how to turn that off.”
My fingers still on the edge of my sandwich. I listen, seeing him in a new light. The guy who everyone thinks has it so easy, who dates casually, who never seems to care too much—he's been fighting this battle the whole time.
“Every relationship I've had crashes and burns for the same reason,” he continues, frustration evident in his voice. “I can't figure out how to fit a girlfriend into the equation when my family always comes first.” He bites his lip as he looks at the floor. “With Amber sophomore year, I'd be up at midnight helping her with papers, listening to her problems, being there whenever she needed. But the one weekend I couldn't make it to her family thing because Tara was going through some stuff? She said I wasn't committed enough.”
“That's not fair of her,” I say.
“Maybe not. But she wasn't wrong either.” He shrugs. “I've got this... need to fix everything for everyone. To be the reliable one. And when I care about someone, I try to solve all their problems too. But then I get stretched too thin, and something's gotta give.”
I watch him, seeing a new layer to the cocky, carefree guy I thought I knew.
“And when I try to hold back—to not immediately jump into fix-it mode—then I come across as completely detached.” His jaw tightens. “I’m not proud of some of theflings I’ve had…I’ve kept my distance from people. Never overpromising but also never giving them what I know they want.”
“So it's either all or nothing?” I ask.
“That's how it's felt,” he admits. “Either I care so much I forget where they end and I begin, or I have to keep walls up to protect the priorities I already have.” He looks at me directly. “I've never figured out the middle ground.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “It's like... I've got this hardwired program running that says 'take care of everyone else first,' and I don't know how to rewrite it. I either dive in too deep or stay too far away.”
I fold my hands in my lap, sandwich forgotten.
“With you, it's different,” he admits. “And that scares the shit out of me even more.”
I arch a brow. “Because I'm terrifying?”
