You sit together on the edge of the bed. Theo’s gaze is fixed on some distant point beyond the room. You can tell he’s had just enough to drink that his usual cool composure is starting to slip though he still fights it, still tries to keep that carefully constructed armor in place.

“You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” he mutters, not meeting your eyes. His tone is low, the words barely audible, and he looks away as if the thought of you leaving is easier to bear if he doesn’t have to see it.

“I want to, Theo. I’m here because I want to be.”

His jaw tenses, and for a moment, you think he might push you away again, brush you off like he has so many times before, with those cold, calculated words that hurt more than you’d ever admit. But instead, he surprises you.

“I know… I know I don’t say things right. I don’t know how to… show you,” he says, his voice raw, each word dragged from some part of him that you rarely get to see. “But I… I don’t want you to think… that I don’t care.”

You look at him, his words stirring something in you that aches, because you know this is as close as he gets to vulnerability. “Theo,” you whisper, reaching for his hand, your fingers lacing through his. “I don’t need you to say it perfectly.”

He lets out a shaky breath, and for a moment, he looks down, his shoulders sagging as if weighed down by something heavy. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, and this time his voice is barely more than a whisper, carrying something deeper. “I’m sorry that I… that I never lifted you the way you lifted me. You deserved… better than that.”

Your heart stutters at his words, the rawness in them cutting through his usual stoicism. You can see in his eyes that he means it, that he’s carried this silent guilt for longer than you knew. You realize then that he’s offering you a part of himself that he’s always kept hidden—a piece of his heart that he’s too afraid to let you hold.