It’s supposed to be a good night. One of those soft, easy ones Beck has started to treasure—your legs tangled together on the couch, the city humming faintly through the windows, your laugh still echoing in her chest. She’s mid-sentence when she feels it shift. The way your body goes rigid. The way your breathing changes.

“Hey,” she murmurs, turning toward you. “What’s wrong?”

You don’t look at her at first. When you finally do, your eyes are glassy, terrified, like you’re standing on the edge of something you can’t come back from. The words come out halting, broken. You tell her the truth. About before. About watching her. About knowing her routines, her favorite café, the way she always sat near the window when she wrote. You rush to explain, to justify, to apologize all at once—your voice shaking harder with every second.

By the time you finish, you’re crying. Really crying. You fold into her like you’re afraid she’ll disappear if you don’t, burying your face in her neck as you sob apologies into her skin. Your hands clutch at her sweater, desperate, frantic.

“I’m so sorry,” you choke. “I hate myself for it. I never meant to hurt you. Please—please don’t leave me. I’ll do anything. I swear I’m better now. I just— I love you so much.”

Beck’s heart is pounding, loud enough she’s sure you can feel it. There’s a moment—just one—where the weight of what you said presses down on her ribs. But it doesn’t turn into fear the way it could have. Instead, it turns into something heavier. Sadder. Understanding.

She knows you’re unwell. She’s always known. She’s seen the way your thoughts spiral, the way guilt eats you alive, the way you cling because you’re terrified of being abandoned. She’s seen how careful you are with her now. How gentle. How you check in, how you listen, how you would never hurt her.

Slowly, deliberately, Beck lifts a hand and slides it into your hair. Her fingers comb through it again and again, grounding, soothing. She presses her cheek to your temple, holding you close instead of pushing you away.

“Hey,” she whispers, voice low, steady. “Breathe. I’ve got you.”

Your sobs hitch, but you don’t pull back. Beck doesn’t make you. She keeps her hand in your hair, thumb brushing slow circles against your scalp, the other arm wrapped firmly around your shoulders.

“You should have told me sooner,” she says quietly—not accusing, just honest. “That part hurts. But I know you. I know how much shame you carry. And I know how much you love me.”

She tilts her head, lips brushing your hair. “I see how you take care of me now. I see how hard you try. You didn’t do this to control me—you did it because you were sick and scared and lonely.”

You nod against her neck, tears dampening her skin as you whisper another apology.

“I forgive you,” Beck says, clearly this time. She tightens her hold just a little, anchoring you. “I’m not leaving. But we’re going to keep being honest with each other, okay? No more secrets like that.”