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I grab a glass from the cabinet, fill it with ice and filtered water, and slide it across the counter to her. She takes a slow sip, throat working with every swallow.

Jesus. I have to force myself to look away.

She sets the glass down with a quiet clink. “So…let’s talk, Beau.”

I lean back against the counter, arms folded across my chest like I can somehow hold myself together that way.

“Talk,” I repeat. “Right.”

She doesn’t flinch. Just watches me with those wide, honest eyes that always manage to see straight through my bullshit. When I don’t say anything, she exhales a slow breath.

“Okay, then, I’ll start,” she says. “What happened between us wasn’t nothing. Not to me. And I think… I hope it wasn’t for you, either.”

“It wasn’t nothing.”

She nods once. “Good. I haven’t really…been in a long-term relationship in a while. People usually get tired of me. Or overwhelmed. Or annoyed.”

She huffs a nervous laugh, but there’s no humor in it. Just honesty. “I like you, Beau. A lot more than I planned to. And if we’re doing anything, I need to know you’re not going to keep pushing me away every time you get uncomfortable or decide I’m too much.”

I study her—shoulders squared, eyes locked on mine, hands clenched at her sides, bracing for rejection.

“Whitley…” I push off the counter and take one slow step closer. “You’re not too much.”

She blinks, surprise flitting across her features. “That’s…not the response I was expecting.”

“What were you expecting?” I take another step closer, needing to close the distance between us.

“I don’t know.” Her eyes search mine. “Maybe some brooding non-answer. Or you telling me this was a mistake.”

That stings, but it’s more than fair.

“I’m not good at this,” I admit. “Talking. Feelings. Any of it.”

She bites back a smile. “I’ve noticed.”

I exhale slowly, forcing myself to stay open when every instinct screams to shut down. “When I was a kid, my mom would go through these phases. One day, she’d be all in—making pancakes, singing, telling me I was her whole world. The next, she’d be gone. Physically there but checked out. Or screaming about how I ruined her life.”

“Beau…”

I shake my head, hating the way sympathy softens her features. I don’t want her pity.

“My point is, I learned early that loving someone meant waiting for them to stay, only for them to make you wish they hadn’t.”

She takes a step toward me, close enough now that I can smell the faint scent of her perfume. That floral sweetness makes my chest ache. “I’m not going to flip a switch and turn on you.”

“Logically, I know that. But⁠—”

“But you’re still that kid waiting for the other shoe to drop. So when things got intense between us,” she continues, “you pulled away first. Because that’s what you do.”

“Yeah.” The admission feels like gravel in my throat. “It’s fucked up.”

She reaches out, her fingertips brushing my arm. Even that slight touch sends electricity racing across my skin.

“It’s not fucked up,” she says, shaking her head, a tiny smirk tugging at her mouth. “I mean…do you probably need some therapy? Definitely. Maybe even, like, the kind with couches and tissues and deep inner child stuff.”

My laugh is hoarse, caught somewhere between shame and relief.

“You’re just a little emotionally constipated.” She smirks. “Nothing a good cry and three to five business months of vulnerability won’t begin to solve.”