Chapter 135 You're safe
"You're not broken," I countered. "You're scarred. There's a difference. Broken things can't function. You've built an entire life, created a career helping people, protected your sister, and survived something that would have destroyed most people. That's not broken. That's incredible."
His eyes searched mine as if looking for the lie, the moment when I'd realize what I'd signed up for and run for the door. But I didn't flinch, didn't look away. Whatever demons he was battling, we'd face them together.
"I don't know how to do this," he admitted. "How to let someone in. How to trust someone with the parts of myself I've spent years hiding."
"Then we'll figure it out together," I said. "One day at a time. One moment at a time. No pressure, no expectations beyond honesty."
"I can't promise I won't have these episodes again. I can't promise I'll always be able to separate past from present."
"I'm not asking you to promise anything except that you'll talk to me when it happens. That you'll let me help instead of shutting me out."
He was quiet for a long moment, processing everything I'd said. When he finally spoke, his voice was raw with emotion.
"Do you know what it's like, having to pretend all the time?" he asked. "Having to wear a mask with everyone I meet because showing the truth would make them uncomfortable? I've spent my entire adult life performing normalcy, calculating every word and gesture to seem like someone who doesn't carry these scars."
I waited, sensing there was more he needed to say.
"But with you..." He paused, his thumb tracing gentle circles on my hand. "With you, I don't want to pretend anymore. I don't want to perform. I just want to be myself, broken pieces and all, and trust that you'll still be here when I'm done."
The vulnerability in those words nearly undid me. This man who faced down criminals and killers without flinching was terrified of showing me the wounded child he'd once been.
"I'm here," I said simply. "I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere."
Something shifted in his eyes then—a letting go, a surrender to the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he didn't have to carry this burden alone anymore. He leaned in slowly, giving me every opportunity to pull away, and pressed his lips to mine.
This kiss was different from any we'd shared before. It wasn't hungry or demanding or calculated. It was tentative and honest and achingly vulnerable, like he was offering me a piece of himself he'd never shown anyone.
I responded with gentle encouragement, letting him set the pace, letting him control the depth and pressure. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine, and I could feel his breath mingling with my own.
"Make love to me," he whispered. "Not because of what happened this morning, but because I want to try again. I want to give you control and trust that you won't hurt me."
My breath caught at the magnitude of what he was offering. This wasn't just about sex—it was about trust, about choosing to be vulnerable even when every instinct screamed at him to protect himself.
"Are you sure?" I asked, needing to hear him say it.
"No," he admitted with a soft, self-deprecating laugh. "But I want to try anyway."
I kissed him again, pouring every ounce of tenderness and patience I possessed into the gesture. Then I stood, extending my hand to him. He took it, letting me lead him to the bedroom where this day had started so wrong.
This time, I moved slowly, checking in with him at every step. When I pushed him gently back onto the bed, I watched his face for any sign of panic. When I straddled his hips, I paused to let him adjust to the position. When I began to remove his shirt, I narrated each movement, giving him the chance to stop me if he needed to.
"You're in control," I reminded him softly. "If you need me to stop, we stop. No questions, no judgment."
He nodded, his hands coming to rest on my hips with deliberate lightness, as if he were afraid to grip too tightly.
I took my time exploring his body, learning the scars that marked his skin—some from his childhood, others from his dangerous career. Each one told a story of survival, of a man who refused to be destroyed by the darkness he'd endured.
When I finally sank down onto him, joining our bodies completely, he made a sound that was half gasp, half sob. His eyes were bright with unshed tears, but when I started to pull away, concerned, he shook his head.
"Don't stop," he breathed. "Please don't stop."
So I didn't. I moved slowly, carefully, watching his face for any sign that he was slipping away from me. But he stayed present, stayed with me, his eyes locked on mine as if I were the only thing tethering him to reality.
"You're safe," I whispered, leaning down to kiss him. "You're here with me, and you're safe."
His hands tightened on my hips, not controlling but anchoring, and I felt the moment when he truly let go—when he stopped calculating and analyzing and just allowed himself to feel.
When he finally came apart beneath me, my name on his lips like a prayer, I saw something beautiful happen: the carefully constructed walls he'd built around himself crumbled, leaving behind the man he'd been before the world taught him to hide.