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I don't respond. I just look at him, my arms crossed over my chest.

He nods, as if he understands. "Do you want to sit down?" he asks, gesturing toward the living room.

"Yes," I say.

We walk into the living room. I sit on the edge of the couch, and Brock takes the armchair across from me, keeping distance between us.

I take a breath, keeping my voice steady. "We both know what happened between us," I say, meeting his dark brown eyes directly. "We've already laid out what you did and why it broke my trust. But if we're actually standing here talking about what comes next, you need to answer for how you operate."

Brock sits rigid in his armchair, his posture tense. He doesn't offer a defense or try to minimize what happened. "Ask me."

"I'm not asking you to pretend none of this happened," Brock says quietly, his hands clasped between his knees. "And you don't owe me a second chance. If you need me to step into the other room right now and give you space, I will. If you want to leave, I won't stop you. I'll maintain my distance at school, respect every professional boundary you set, and keep every interaction strictly about Kayla's education. But if you're willing to try, I want to do this openly. We put concrete safeguards in place to protect your career and Kayla's stability, and I will never deceive you again."

Silence settles over his living room. I look at him—really look at him—stripped of his mask, stripped of the commanding certainty he wore before, offering me complete control over what happens next.

"You say you'll follow safeguards," I say slowly, stepping closer so there's no mistaking my resolve. "But your first instinct is always to take charge and manage the outcome. You hid behind a disguise because you decided you knew best how to handle the situation without giving me a voice. So tell me, Brock—what happens the next time things get complicated? What happens when protecting me or managing the school's scrutiny conflicts with my right to make my own choices?"

Brock's jaw tightens, a muscle jumping along his cheek, but he doesn't look away.

"You're right," he says, his baritone rough and stripped bare. "That instinct to control, to decide what you could handle and manage the risk myself—that was the root of what I broke. I told myself I was mitigating complications, but the reality is I was acting out of fear and arrogance. I took away your choice because I didn't want to risk losing you."

He leans forward, his gaze direct and uncompromising.

"I can't promise that protective impulse won't surface again. It's how I run my firm, how I handle conflict, how I've operated for years. But I give you my word: any decision that touches this relationship, your career, or Kayla will be brought to you first. We navigate district policies and professional boundaries together. I can propose solutions, but I will not implement a single safeguard without your explicit agreement. If you say no, that is the final answer—even if every instinct in me wants to take over."

His voice drops, weighted with quiet conviction.

"If I break that promise, you walk. No second chances. No excuses."

I study him carefully, searching his face for any sign of hollow reassurance or performative contrition. But all I see is a man who understands exactly what he broke and what it will cost him to rebuild it.

"That's not forgiveness, Brock," I say quietly. "I'm not there yet. I don't know if I'll get there. But I'm willing to try—if you can prove you mean what you're saying."

"I will," he says simply.

"No more secrets," I add, my voice gaining strength. "No more disguises. We navigate the school policies together. We protect my job and Kayla first. And our private dynamic..." I pause, my cheeks warming, but I keep my chin lifted. "I liked what we had in that room. I liked the control you took, and I liked... what we called each other. But that is our private language. It is never a shortcut around honest communication, and it never replaces you talking to me like an equal."

A subtle softness touches the hard line of Brock's mouth. "Understood."

I stand up from the sofa and take the slow steps across the rug toward the armchair. Brock remains still, his dark eyes watching me, waiting for my lead.

I stop right in front of him. Reaching out, I place my hand gently against the side of his jaw. The slight roughness of his five o'clock shadow warms my palm, his breathing hitching under my touch.

"I want to try, Brock," I whisper, my voice trembling with anger and fear and something dangerously close to hope. "With you. As yourself."

I stare at him, my heart pounding.

He means it.

I can see it in his eyes. Hear it in his voice.

"I'm still angry at you," I whisper.

"You have every right to be."

"I'm still terrified."

"I understand."