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Then, finally, “Okay.”

My chest swells with something warm and achingly tender. I lean into his touch, letting my eyes flutter closed as his fingers work through my hair in soothing strokes.

“Thank you,” I whisper. “For letting me in.”

His thumb brushes against my scalp, sending shivers down my spine. “I should be thanking you.”

I open my eyes and find him watching me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. There’s vulnerability there, raw and unguarded in a way I’ve never seen before. It’s like every wall he’s ever built has crumbled, leaving just him. Just Beau.

“Hey, Red?”

“Yeah?”

He leans over, his lips ghosting across my temple, and whispers, “I love you more than I know how to say. More than I think I’m supposed to.”

“Good,” I say, trying not to sound too emotional. “Because I was planning to say it at least six more times before the end of the day.”

“Think you can top me?” he challenges.

“Buckle up, Sinclair,” I shoot back. “It’s going to get embarrassing.”

A few days later, we pull up to a weathered brick building the color of old pennies, darkened in places by rain and time. My fingers drum nervously on my lap. This visit is so much more than a simple hello. I’m about to step into the part of Beau’s life he doesn’t share easily.

Beau’s quiet in the driver’s seat beside me, eyes fixed on the door, muscles taut. “Ready?”

I nod. “Yes sir, let’s do it.”

Beau lets out a sigh and scrubs a hand down his face. “Save that for the bedroom, Whitley.”

I grin, nudging him lightly. “Okay, okay, just trying to lighten the mood.”

He shakes his head, but there’s a smile on his face. That’s all I wanted.

“I’m actually excited,” I admit. “I want to meet her. To see where you come from.”

Beau’s jaw tightens for a moment, but then he nods. “Alright. Let’s go.”

We slip out of the car. The summer air is thick and sticky and clings to my skin. Beau’s steps are sure beside me, but his shoulders are taut. We climb the narrow stairs, Beau’s hand brushing mine for a fraction of a second before he pulls away.

When we reach the door, it swings open before Beau can knock.

Beau’s mom stands there with her dark hair pulled back loosely, strands escaping to frame a face that’s achingly familiar. Her eyes catch mine. The same stormy depth, the same guarded warmth I see in Beau’s every day is right there.

“Hi, Mrs. Sinclair,” I say, voice light and steady.

She blinks, surprised, then lets out a soft laugh. Beau exhales beside me, and for the first time since we pulled up, his shoulders drop.

She steps aside, inviting us in with a smile that doesn’t quite erase the shadows in her eyes but softens them enough to make me feel welcome. “You must be Whitley. Please, call me Robin.”

The apartment is small but cozy. A knit blanket is draped over the back of the couch. A bookshelf crammed full of dog-eared paperbacks and half-burned candles is in the corner. The scent of lavender and something faintly herbal clings to the air.

Beau hovers in the doorway a beat too long, his hand brushing the edge of the doorframe. I glance over and catch the set of his jaw.

I reach out and wrap my fingers around his. Just a squeeze. Just enough to say I’m here.

He finally steps in behind me.

“Sit, please,” his mom says, already dashing toward the tiny kitchen tucked off the main room. “I’ll put on some tea.”