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He exhales sharply, running a hand through his disheveled hair. When he finally turns to look at me, the complexity of emotions in his eyes takes my breath away. Need, fear, something darker that looks like self-loathing.

"Because I can't—" He stops, jaw clenching. "You don't know what you're asking for."

I push myself up to sitting, the sheet falling to my waist. I'm still wearing his flannel shirt, and I see his eyes track the movement, lingering on where the buttons gap slightly.

"Then tell me," I say softly. "Help me understand why you're fighting this so hard when I know you feel it too."

His eyes close briefly, like he's steeling himself for something painful.

When he opens them again, they're focused on a point just past my shoulder.

"Six years ago," he starts, his voice tight, "I was in an accident. Bad one. Mountain roads, ice, a truck that came out of nowhere." His hand moves unconsciously to his side, where I'd glimpsed scars earlier. "I wasn't alone in the car."

My heart stutters. I think I know where this is going, but I stay quiet, letting him find the words.

"Jess," he says, and the name sounds like it hurts coming out. "She was... we were..." He shakes his head. "Doesn't matter what we were. She didn't make it. I did." His laugh is bitter, hollow. "Spent three months in the hospital. Physical therapy for a year after. Moved up here as soon as I could walk properly."

I want to reach for him again, but something in his posture warns me not to.

Not yet.

"The thing is," he continues, finally meeting my eyes, "I shouldn't have survived. The doctors called it a miracle, but it didn't feel like one. Felt like punishment. Like I was meant to live with—" He gestures vaguely at himself. "With this. With knowing."

"It wasn't your fault," I whisper, because I can see the guilt eating at him, can hear it in every word.

"Doesn't matter whose fault it was. What matters is I learned something that night. About how quick it all can change. How dangerous it is to..." He stops, swallowing hard. "To want things. To need people."

"Vincent—"

"You make me want things," he cuts me off, his voice raw. "Things I told myself I'd never have again. Never deserve to have again."

The admission hangs between us, heavy with implications.

My chest aches for him, for the pain he's carried alone all these years. But there's something else too—a fierce kind of hope, because he's telling me this. Because he's letting me see the broken pieces he's kept hidden.

Slowly, deliberately, I move closer to him.

He watches me like a wounded animal might watch an approaching hand—wary, but not running.

When I'm close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, I reach out and trace the scar on his shoulder, visible where his t-shirt has shifted.

"You're still here," I say softly, following the line of the scar with my fingertips. "Still breathing. Still strong." I look up at him, wanting him to see the truth in my eyes. "Still capable of feeling. Of wanting."

His breathing is uneven, like he doesn't know what to do with my tenderness. Like no one's touched him like this since before the accident.

"Sadie," he says, and my name sounds like a warning and a prayer all at once.

The air shifts between us, becoming charged with something that feels like inevitability.

This time, Vincent doesn't fight it. His hand slides to my waist, fingers pressing into the soft flesh there, and the simple touch sends electricity through my whole body.

"I need you to be sure," he says, his voice rough. "Because if we do this—if I let myself have this—there's no going back for me. I don't do casual, Sadie. I can't."

The intensity in his eyes should frighten me. Instead, it makes me feel anchored, seen in a way Matthew never managed to.

I hold his gaze, wanting him to see that I'm not afraid of his past, not afraid of him.

"I ran away from casual," I tell him. "From convenient and safe and perfectly planned. I want real. Even if it's complicated. Even if it's messy."