I shove my hands in my pockets. “Doing what?”
“Thinking about everything except what you actually want to say.”
The words hit harder than they should. Because they’re true.
My jaw tightens.
She steps closer. “You don’t have to tell me tonight,” she says softly. “But I know something’s wrong.”
My throat feels too tight suddenly.
God. This woman sees too much.
“I just…” My voice roughens. “I don’t want you caught up in my shit.”
Peyton’s expression softens. “Daltyn?—”
“No.” I drag a hand through my hair. “You don’t understand.”
“Then help me understand.”
My chest constricts painfully. Because I want to tell her.
Fuck, I want to tell her everything.
About the nightmares. About my father. About the blood and yelling and fear. About why the idea of loving someone feels like holding a loaded weapon.
But the words stay trapped inside me like they always do. Because saying them out loud makes them real again.
And worse?—
What if she looks at me differently afterward?
What if she sees something broken and ugly in me?
What if she realizes I’m not worth all this effort?
The silence stretches between us.
Peyton watches me carefully. Waiting. Giving me space without pushing.
And somehow that patience feels worse than pressure. Because she deserves honesty.
But I can’t give it to her. I can’t make myself say it.
Instead, all I can manage is, “I’m trying.”
Her face falls slightly. And guilt claws through my chest.
She nods once. “Okay.”
That one word nearly wrecks me. It’s careful. Guarded. Like she’s trying not to ask for more than I can give her.
I hate that I’m doing that to her.
“I’m gonna shower,” I mutter.
Coward.
