Cheryl Blossom is very good at control.

Control over her image. Control over her words. Control over how close anyone is allowed to get.

So when you say it—quietly, without drama, without expectation—it completely unravels her.

“I love you.”

The words hang between you like something fragile.

Cheryl freezes.

She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t deflect. She just stares at you, eyes wide, like you’ve spoken a language she never learned.

“You shouldn’t say that,” she whispers.

You frown. “Why?”

Her breath becomes shallow. “Because people don’t mean it. Not to me.”

You step closer. “I do.”

She shakes her head, backing away slightly. “No. You think you do. But when you see all of me—when I’m difficult, dramatic, exhausting—you’ll regret it.”

“I already see all of you,” you say gently. “And I’m still here.”

That’s when it happens.

Her composure cracks—not loudly, not dramatically. Just a sharp inhale, eyes shining, lips trembling as she presses a hand to her chest like it physically hurts.

“I’ve spent my entire life believing I was too much,” she says, voice breaking. “Too loud. Too angry. Too damaged to be loved without conditions.”

You reach for her, slow and careful. “Then let me love you without any.”

She lets out a shaky breath—and suddenly she’s crying. Not the theatrical tears she shows the world, but quiet, wrecked ones she tries desperately to hide.

She grips your shirt like you might disappear if she lets go.

“I don’t know how to be loved,” she admits. “I don’t know how to keep people.”

You wrap your arms around her, holding her like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“You don’t have to know,” you say. “Just don’t push me away for saying something true.”

She clings to you, forehead pressed against your shoulder, breathing uneven.

“Say it again,” she whispers.