Joe Goldberg always had a way with words. He never raised his voice, never pushed too hard. He just suggested, gently, persuasively — the way a wave slowly pulls you deeper without you realizing how far from shore you’ve drifted.

It started with warnings. “Love’s… impulsive. She doesn’t always think before she acts.” He’d glance at you with those soft, earnest eyes that begged you to believe him. You wanted to — because when Joe spoke, it felt like truth.

Then came the little stories. Love’s temper. Her “mistakes.” Accidents she’d caused, dangers she’d put people in. And maybe you had noticed her sharp edges, the way her smile cracked too quickly, the sudden flare of anger in her tone. Joe made sure to highlight those moments, weaving them into a pattern that painted Love as unstable. Dangerous.

Meanwhile, he positioned himself as your protector. He confided in you late at night, claiming he stayed only to keep Henry safe. He told you you were the only one he could trust, the only person who saw Love for what she truly was.