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I see him at every age he’s ever been, learning that love means sacrifice. That needing people means losing them. That the safest thing to do is keep everyone at arm’s length and pretend you don’t feel anything at all.
My hands ache with the need to reach for him. To pull him close and hold him until all those years of hurt disappear. But if I move, if I interrupt, he might stop talking. And I need him to keep going.
“The night of the ceremony,” he continues, “she’d been calling all day. I should’ve just told you what was happening, but I convinced myself it was better to keep it separate. That if I could just get through the night, I’d handle it after.”
He stops, the muscle in his jaw working like the next words are stuck.
“Then that asshole at the ceremony started running his mouth about you, and I lost it. Not because I thought you couldn’t handle yourself. You’re the strongest person I know. But hearing him talk about you like that, like you were something disposable…” His hands flex on the counter. “It made me realize that’s exactly what I was about to do to you. Treat you like you were temporary when you’re the only permanent thing I’ve ever wanted.”
My vision blurs. I blink hard, refusing to let the tears fall yet. Because they undoubtedly will.
“I panicked.” He drags a hand through his hair, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt down. “Told myself you’d be better off without me dragging you into my mess. That you deserved someone who wouldn’t disappear on you when things got difficult.”
I’m trying so hard to stay upright, to let him finish, even though every cell in my body is screaming at me to close the distance between us.
“I was so fucking wrong. I’m not sure I’ll ever be enough for you,” he says. “Not in the way you deserve. But I swear to god, Whit, I want to learn. With you. If you’ll let me.”
The silence hangs between us like a fragile thread stretched tight, threatening to snap. I want to fill it up with words, to chase away the heaviness pressing against my ribs, but nothing feels quite right.
“Beau… Thank you.” I step closer, heart pounding loud enough to drown out every doubt. “Thank you for telling me. You think you’re not enough,” I say slowly, “and that breaks me more than anything. Because you’re everything.”
“I worry I’m too much sometimes,” I admit. “But you? You’re the calm I never knew I needed. The quiet that lets me be loud. And if you think you’re not enough…then what does that make me?”
His eyes search mine, desperate for an answer he’s afraid to hear.
I reach out, fingers trembling but sure, and rest my hand against his cheek. “You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be you. That is more than enough.”
Beau’s gaze darkens. He swallows hard, voice deep and rough like he’s scraping out the words from the bottom of his soul. “I love you, Whitley. Every wild, fierce, beautiful part of you. I’ll never stop trying to be the man you deserve, even if I don’t know how to be him yet.”
I’m going to cry. No, I got this.
Okay, no, scratch that. Shit. I don’t got this at all.
“Damn it, Beau.”
I’m standing on the edge of losing my cool, and it’s all his fault. He’s not just saying words. He’s laying himself bare. My tears spill over, hot tracks down my cheeks that I don’t bother to wipe away.
“Don’t you dare stop trying,” I whisper, “because I’m not going anywhere.”
I clear my throat and shove the lump in my throat down with a huff. “Listen, I love you so much it’s basically stupid. Like, embarrassingly stupid. So please kiss me before I start rambling.”
He hesitates, eyes flickering like he’s caught between a thousand thoughts. The silence stretches too long, and I’m not having it.
“Now, Sinclair.”
His breath catches and then thank god, he takes the final two steps toward me.
His lips crash against mine, desperate and full of everything he’s been holding back. It’s like the first storm after a drought, fierce enough to set fire to my skin and shake the ground beneath us.
I’m melting into him, every part of me screaming for more—the way his hands grip my waist, like I might disappear if he lets go. The way his mouth moves against mine, slow and searing, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of me through taste.
When he breaks the kiss, it physically hurts my soul. He presses his forehead to mine. “You’re it for me, Whitley.”
Okay, well fucking swoon. My heart does somersaults, then launches itself into the stratosphere. There’s no salvaging the puddle of goo I’ve become.
“God, you really know how to hit a girl where it hurts. Right in the ovaries,” I whisper, breathless. “Now shut up and kiss me again before I start ugly crying.”
A hoarse laugh breaks from him. And that smile—god, that smile. It’s all crooked and boyish, tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’s trying to hold it back but can’t. It wrecks me more than the kiss does.
