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The sheer intensity of his words sends a shiver through my stomach. A weak, desperate part of me wants to let him do exactly that—to stop hiding and let his certainty protect me.

But the cold reality of my life pulls me back.

"You don't get to decide that for me," I say, my voice steady and clear.

Brock flinches as if I've struck him.

"I know you want to protect me," I continue, fighting the sting behind my eyes. "But protection doesn't mean announcing what's going to happen. It means listening to my concerns and respecting my decision about my own career."

Silence falls between us, heavy and sharp.

Brock looks down at his hands on the table. He takes a slow, deep breath, his broad chest rising and falling before he raises his head to meet my brown eyes.

"You're right," he says quietly.

I stare at him, caught off guard.

"You're right," he repeats, the anger gone from his face, replaced by stark, sober clarity. "I have financial security and professional insulation that you don't. My frustration doesn't change the fact that you're carrying the greater risk. I was being selfish, and I'm sorry."

The plain honesty of his apology lands hard in my chest, making my throat ache.

"I don't want to fight with you, Brock," I whisper. "What we have... it's real. But I feel like I'm walking through a minefield every time I step into that school."

"Then let's take a breath," he says softly, reaching across the small table to rest his palm over my trembling fingers. "We don't have to push anything. We take it one step at a time, on your terms."

I look down at his large, warm hand covering mine. He makes me feel wanted in ways I never thought possible.

But the fear and the overwhelming pace of everything are suffocating me.

"I need space," I whisper, slowly pulling my hand out from under his.

Brock's hand remains open on the table, a brief flash of pain crossing his features. "Megan."

"I need time to think," I say, my voice trembling. "Without the pressure. Without reacting to fear or getting swept up in how intense you are. I need a break."

He searches my face for a long, quiet moment, his jaw tight. For a second, I expect him to push back—to argue, to demand, to command.

Instead, he slowly lowers his hands and sits back.

"If you need space, I'll give it to you," he says, his voice low and completely controlled. "I won't approach you at school, and I won't message you."

He stands, buttons his dark coat, and looks down at me one last time.

"Take whatever time you need," he murmurs.

He turns and walks out into the autumn evening, the bell above the door chiming softly behind him.

I sit alone in the corner of the shop, staring at the empty chair across from me, my heart aching with the silence.

Chapter Fourteen

BROCK

Three days without hearing Megan's voice, and every instinct in my blood wants to drive to her apartment, pull her into my arms, and tell her everything will be fine. But her words from Friday night are carved into my skull: Protection doesn't mean announcing what's going to happen. It means listening to my concerns.

She was right. My firm partnership insulates me from gossip, but Megan doesn't have that luxury. A single whisper of favoritism could spark an administrative inquiry and derail the career she's spent her life building.

She asked for space. Giving it to her is tearing me apart, but I refuse to steamroll her boundaries just to satisfy my own impatience.