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A strangled noise escapes from my throat and my face goes up in flames. Seriously, I want to crawl under a rock and die right now.

Tate’s lips curl at the corner, but he doesn’t poke at me as he lowers to the couch. He sits closer than usual. Way closer.

I clear my throat as Tate lifts his soda to his lips. I’m suddenly parched but I fear the sticky sweetness of my hot chocolate will get stuck going down, so I don’t reach for it.

I just let the movie play, and eventually, I relax.

I don't want to find Tate attractive. I feel evil for feeling the way I feel. For thinking that I could want him in any capacity.

His little brother is my first love, the father of my child, but that first love is no longer in my life, and Tate is. Tate is here, and his dreams align with mine. But it's not just about the dream for life we share. It's not just that he doesn't reach for stardom the way Holt does.

It's so much more than any of that.

It's the way he makes me feel safe. It's the way he loves me in silence. It's his willingness to make the simple dreams come true, to chase a quiet life, to live humbly.

I think that's the true attraction. Because I've struggled for years with the fame and stardom that Holt chases. I've struggled to see myself in that life, existing but never truly living in the shadows of that life.

Now it's clear to me that I never should have allowed myself to dream with Holt. It wasn't fair to him, and it wasn't fair to me. It was a mistake, a youthful folly. But I made it, nonetheless. Now I have to live with the consequences. I have to live with the reality that I've not only hurt him, and myself—but that I’ve hurt the people we love most, too.

I snuggle into the couch, resting my head on the cushion of the arm with my blanket up to my chin. I can feel Tate's warmth beside me, but I do my best not to touch him, not to invade his space.

I've already done so much of that.

Despite my best efforts, though, Tate grabs my ankles and pulls my feet onto his lap. Absently, he starts to massage my legs. I don't think I've realized how starved for touch I've become in the months since I moved in with Tate. With Tate, touch has been rare.

Yes, he's rubbed my feet before, as embarrassing as that is. But it's not often. He's careful not to touch me, not to push me. He’s so careful not to make me think he's demanding more than I can give, than I'm ready to give.

I'm so grateful that he doesn't push, that he doesn't demand.

He’s such a good man.

But touch is something I’ve never wanted for. I grew up in a home where touch was a language of love. Right up to the day I moved out, Mom would tickle my back and play with my hair. Dad never passed up a hug.

I didn’t realize how deeply I ached for touch, for connection, until now.

“Is this okay?” Tate asks. His thumbs work delicious circles into the tender flesh of my calf.

I have to bite back a moan. “Yes.”

“You don't want me to stop, then?” There’s a lilt to his words that feels gently teasing.

“No.”

He continues to rub my calves. I continue to stare at the screen, but I'm not seeing the movie anymore. My mind is playing out the movie of my life. Of a future that I live with this man, a future filled with love and laughter and quiet wonder.

I suddenly want that future more than I want the air in my lungs. I want to grow something with this man. Something real.

Sure, it might have started fake. It might have started as a way to save me from myself. From my bad decisions.

From my youth.

But now, it doesn't feel fake, and it doesn't feel wrong.

Perhaps I should feel guilty for that. But I realize now, in this moment, I just don't.

I twist to look at him, and his eyes slide instantly to mine. His fingers don't stop working the muscles of my calf as he raises a brow in question.

“I think we should go shopping,” I blurt abruptly.