Page 73 of Break My Heart

“You’ve never gone into that level of detail with me before,” I say quietly.

“No, I never did.” She collects herself. “But I need you to understand why I am now.”

I straighten slightly, every instinct in me goes still. I don’t try to fill the silence while she gathers her words. “When my mom got sick, everything changed. But my dad chose us completely, Leo. Without question.”

“And my actions showed you something different.”

“You defaulted to protecting yourself instead of choosing me. Us.”

I nod once, slow. “You’re right.”

No defense. No explanation. Just the truth.

Her shoulders drop a fraction, like she expected resistance and didn’t get it. “I don’t need perfection from the person I’m with, Leo. Nor am I expecting you to emulate my father’s decisions. But all day I was thinking about what I need.”

“And that is?”

“Respect.”

“You have it,” I counter immediately.

“I know you think that.” She studies me for a second longer. “But I need more than woo tossed my way. I need to know that when things get difficult, you won’t disappear into the version of yourself you used to keep safe. Not at the expense of my heart.”

I swallow, my throat tight. “That is exactly what I did, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“I understand,” I say, because she’s not asking for something impossible. She’s asking for something I’ve never given a relationship before: choosing someone when it might cost me something.

“I won’t make that mistake again.” The words come out steady, even if everything inside me feels anything but.

She searches my face for a long moment, like she’s running her own kind of assessment for the truth. “Good, because I won’t stay if it does.”

There’s no threat in her words; just certainty. I nod. “Understood.”

Silence settles between us again, but it’s different now. It’s filled with truths and honesty—a conversation we should have had long ago if I wasn’t so fearful of letting her in.

This is what she needs, and if I want any chance of being in her life, this is where I start. I reach for her. Slowly. Carefully. My hand brushes hers first, giving her time to pull away.

She doesn’t.

Her fingers curl slightly, not quite holding on, but not letting go either.

I open my mouth to speak when the first course I ordered in advance is delivered—Barbagiuan, the national dish of Monaco, a fried pastry filled with Swiss chard and ricotta. After our waiter disappears, our conversation doesn’t go to that depth again. Instead, it softens. We talk about smaller things, quieter things. Not avoiding what we talked about, but not dissecting it either.

By the time we stand, the space that once felt so vast between us has shrunk. It also charges the air in a way I haven’t felt since the last morning in Saratoga Springs when I woke Christin by kissing her.

At first, she only sighed in her sleep, pressing closer like her body recognized mine before she fully woke. It nearly ruined me. I remember brushing another kiss against the corner of her mouth, slow enough that her lashes finally fluttered open.

“Leo,” she murmured, voice rough with sleep and affection.

I’d smiled against her skin, helpless to stop it. “Morning, Chris.”

Instead of answering, she’d tilted her face and kissed me properly—the last time she did. God, standing beside her now, I realize that memory hurts because for the first time in my life, I understand exactly what it was worth.

Yet, I let fear take it from me.

I want to create new memories with her. I step closer. Slow enough that she can stop me.