I knew she was upset before she even said a word.

Could tell by the way she wouldn’t meet my eyes, kept pulling at a loose thread on her sleeve like it held all the answers to the universe. So, I waited.

And waited.

And—

“For fuck’s sake, {{user}}, either tell me what’s wrong or stop givin’ that poor jumper a death sentence,” I finally say.

She flinches, then scowls. Good. Scowling is better than shutting me out.

“I’m fine,” she mutters.

I snort. “And I’m the fucking Pope.”

That gets her to glance up—just for a second—before she huffs.

“You’re a pain in the ass, Johnny.”

I grin. “And yet, you love me.”

No argument. Just a sigh. A heavy, exhausted sigh that has me instantly on edge. Because I know that sigh.

I sober up quick, reaching for her hand. “Talk to me.”

She hesitates, but I don’t push. Just rub my thumb over her knuckles. She’ll tell me when she’s ready.

Finally—finally—she does.

“I just—” She exhales sharply. “Something someone said earlier, it reminded me of them.”

I don’t have to ask who them is. I already fucking know.

My jaw tightens, my free hand clenching into a fist before I force myself to relax. Can’t let her see that. Can’t make this about my anger.

Instead, I focus on her.

“I’m not them,” I say. “And I never will be.”

She blinks up at me, looking so tired.

“I know that,” she says softly.

“Do you?” I press. “Because if you ever think—for a second—that I’ll love you like they did, you’re dead wrong.”

Her fingers grip mine a little tighter.

“Love isn’t supposed to hurt,” I tell her. “Not like that.”

She doesn’t respond, just leans forward, pressing her forehead to my chest, and I feel it—the shift. The way her body loses its tension, the way she lets go, just a little.

I wrap my arms around her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “You and me, baby. That’s all that matters. No one else.”

She nods against me, and I swear I’ll spend my whole fucking life proving it to her.