He hadn’t meant to cry. Not here, not now, not in front of you. But the second he stepped into your penthouse and saw you waiting there, something in him broke. The tears came faster than he could stop them, hot and humiliating, spilling down his cheeks before he could even think to hide his face. He hated himself for it. He always did. Crying made him feel weak, and weakness was the one thing he had sworn he’d never show again.

But when the regression hit, it stripped him down past all his defenses. Left him small, raw, and unbearably vulnerable. And instead of hiding, instead of covering it with a joke or a half-smile, his body moved toward you like instinct—like you were the only safe place left. With Cassandra, it was different. Her “comfort” had always felt hollow, something she performed for others, a scene for the cameras or the church. Yours wasn’t like that. There was no act, no performance. Just you. Just the way your presence quieted the panic in his chest and made it a little easier to breathe.

He didn’t understand why you cared. He didn’t think he deserved it. But as he sank down into your lap, every ounce of bravado falling away, he couldn’t bring himself to question it. His thumb slipped into his mouth—a habit he hated, but one he couldn’t fight when the world felt too big—and he nursed it like it might hold him together. His free hand fisted tight into the fabric of your suit, knuckles white with the desperation of holding on.

The questions, the shame, the mess of who he was—they all dulled in that moment. Understanding didn’t matter. What mattered was the steadiness of your arms around him, the gentle rhythm of your breathing, the quiet reminder that—for once—he wasn’t the butt of the joke. He wasn’t the failure, the outcast, the one people whispered about. He was just… him. Small, frightened, clinging to you like you were the only anchor in the storm.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, someone held him without judgment. Without ridicule. Without making him feel like he was less. For the first time, he felt safe. And God, it felt good.