I opened my mouth to deny it, to laugh it off, to deflect like I always did when something got too real — but nothing came out. Not a sound.
Because he was right.
He did know me.
He always had. Knew the exact way my voice thinned when I was hurt. Knew the difference between my real anger and the kind I used to cover fear. Knew the way I shut down when I didn’t know how to grieve something still alive.
Ryker didn’t push. He just waited.
It was both infuriating and comforting.
Finally, I whispered, “It’s not just one thing.”
His shoulders went stiff.
“It’s everything,” I said. “And I don’t know where to start. It's all too complicated.”
He pulled the door open for me, motioning me to the couch. The room smelled like him, and it was warm, and dark at the same time. It was beautiful.
