Jesse didn't touch me that night.
Didn't undress me.
Didn't pull me into his lap.
Didn't mark my skin with his teeth or his belt or his whispered promises.
He just stood by the window.
Smoking. Silent.
Watching the town lights blink in the distance like a storm trying not to start.
---
"You're thinking too loud," I murmured.
He didn't turn around.
"I used to be good at this," he said. "At keeping lines clear. Boundaries tight."
I sat up, the sheet falling to my waist.
"You think we've crossed a line?"
His shoulders tensed.
"I think I've let something happen I can't undo."
I got out of bed. Walked up behind him. Slid my arms around his waist.
He didn't move.
"Then don't undo it," I whispered. "Just… let it happen."
Jesse turned his head slightly.
"You don't know what you're asking for."
"I do. I'm asking for you."
---
He crushed the cigarette in the ashtray and turned, gripping my face in both hands.
"You make me weak, Kade."
"No," I said. "I make you feel. That's not weakness."
His jaw ticked.
I rose on my toes and kissed the corner of his mouth.
Soft. Lingering. Careful.
His hands dropped from my face. One slid to my chest, pressing right over my heart.
Then he whispered, almost to himself:
"You're too good. And I'm not done being fucked up."
---
Later, in bed, I traced the scars on his chest with the pad of my finger.
"You never talk about them," I said.
"They're old."
"That doesn't mean they stopped hurting."
He looked at me for a long time.
Then, finally:
"Someone I trusted once thought they could fix me. They couldn't."
"And you think I'm trying to fix you?"
"Aren't you?"
"No," I whispered. "I'm just trying to stay."
---
He didn't answer.
But that night, he held me tighter than he ever had.
Like he didn't know how to ask for help—
But didn't want to be alone in the dark anymore.