It wasn’t said as a question.
I blinked, trying to find the right thing to say. “You don’t have to. You’ve done enough.”
He shook his head. “I don’t say things I don’t mean, Ellery. If I say I’m there, I’m there.”
The words hit deeper than I expected. Simple, steady—no pretense, no performance. Just truth.
I met his eyes, and everything else—time, noise, reason—seemed to narrow around that single moment.
No one’s ever said it like that before. No one’s ever meant it.
For someone who’d spent most of my life building walls out of competence and composure, it was terrifying to realize how much I wanted to believe him.
The air felt heavier again, charged but still. I could hear his breathing, steady and slow. Mine wasn’t.
I took a sip of water just to do something with my hands. “You should get some rest before the trip.”
He smiled faintly. “You too.”
But neither of us moved.
We just sat there, two glasses of water sweating on the coffee table, pretending that goodbye hadn’t already started.
The silence stretched until I could feel it, a living thing between us. The hum of the city outside the window filled in the gaps—car tires against wet pavement, a distant horn, the low rhythm of life moving on while I sat perfectly still beside him.
“Ellery…”
Just that—quiet, rough-edged, like he’d been holding it in too long.
I turned toward him, and suddenly there was nowhere to look but him. His expression had changed—no teasing, no armor. Just truth, open and raw. The air tightened, heartbeat-slow, everything narrowing until it was just that look, that gravity, pulling me in.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, eyes never leaving mine. “I want you,” he said. His voice was low but sure. “All of you. I’ve never felt like this before.”
The words hit me so hard I forgot to breathe. For a second, all I could do was stare at him, my mind scrambling for something to hold on to—logic, caution, any excuse not to fall.
“Beckett…” My voice came out small. “You don’t have to?—”
He frowned, confused. “Don’t have to what?”
“Say things like that.” I forced a shaky laugh that didn’t sound like me. “People talk. Your reputation?—”
He cut me off before I could spiral any further. His tone wasn’t sharp, just steady. “Screw my reputation.”
I blinked.
He kept going, softer now, but there was something fierce beneath it. “None of that matters. The noise, the headlines, the stupid stories. They don’t see me. You do.”
I wanted to say something back—something careful, measured, the way I usually handled messy things—but the words tangled in my throat.
Because I did see him. Not the athlete on the posters or the man everyone thought they knew. The real version—the one who stayed late at the foundation, who showed up when no one asked, who looked at me like he’d memorized the way I breathed.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It vibrated, full of everything we weren’t saying.
I stared down at my hands, trying to steady them. The pulse in my wrist was too fast. “You can’t just say things like that,” I whispered. “You can’t mean them.”
But even as I said it, I knew he did.
He leaned back a little, giving me space without retreating, his eyes soft but unflinching. “I don’t say things I don’t mean,” he said.
