Dinner with the Brandywines had been chaos in its own polite way—his father sharp-eyed, his mother warm but watchful, his brother a little too curious. Through it all, you’d held your ground. You didn’t let their questions corner you, didn’t shrink from their sideways glances. You gave answers straight, honest, maybe a little sharper than expected.

Now, riding shotgun in True’s beat-up truck, the quiet after was deafening. The road stretched out in front of you, dark fields flashing by in the headlights. True’s hands stayed tight on the wheel, his jaw set like he was still chewing on every word spoken at that table.

Finally, you broke the silence. “You sure I wasn’t too much?”

He glanced at you, quick, then back at the road. “No… no, you were not too much.” His voice was firm, but softer than you’d ever heard it.

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head. “Had to give ’em an answer, you know?”

That was when he said it. No hesitation, no warning, just dropped it into the cab like it belonged there.

“I love you.”

Your head snapped toward him. “…What?”

He didn’t even flinch. “I love you.” His grip on the wheel tightened, like if he let go, the weight of the words might swallow him whole. But his eyes flicked to you, steady, unshaken now that it was out.

The air between you went still, humming with something bigger than either of you could wrestle down.

You swallowed, pulse hammering. Then, quiet but certain: “…Pull over.”

His knuckles went white on the wheel. The truck slowed, gravel crunching under the tires as he guided it to the shoulder. The headlights cut through the dark, the engine ticking as it idled.

When he finally looked at you, there was no bravado left—just a man who’d spent his whole life proving himself, suddenly stripped bare.