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“Please, one night.”

I nod, and he takes my hand, leading me to the couch.

I sit at the table, my stomach grumbling at the sight of the Spaghetti alla Napoletana. My favorite dish. Of course.

He settles beside me, our knees almost touching as we balance our plates on our laps. The touch sends heat between my legs. That’s what I get for keeping him at a distance.

“Wine?” He holds the bottle up.

I hand him my glass, and he pours the deep red liquid into it, his eyes never leaving mine.

We eat in silence for a few moments, the only sound the clink of our forks against the plates and the muffled voices from the TV.

As I twirl the pasta around my fork, I steal glances at Connor.

The candlelight flickers across his face, casting shadows that accentuate his chiseled jawline. He looks like a damn Greek god. And he’s mine. Or at least, he was.

“He really fucked up.” Connor suddenly says, gesturing towards the TV with his fork.

I glance at the screen, watching as the bachelor is apologizing to a woman, his words dripping with insincerity.

“He did, and I hope she’s not going to believe that load of bull.” I slurp a long noodle.

“You don’t think he’s sincere?”

“Actions speak louder than words. If he really meant it, he wouldn’t have done it in the first place.”

He leans back, studying me intently. “He made a mistake. People do that.”

Are we still talking about the show? “A mistake is one thing. But lying and manipulating someone? That’s a choice.”

“True. But sometimes, people do things out of fear or desperation. It doesn’t make it right, but it doesn’t mean they don’t regretit.”

I stab at my pasta. “Regret doesn’t erase the pain they caused.”

“No, it doesn’t. But it’s a start. If someone is truly sorry, they’ll do whatever it takes to make it right.”

“And how do you know if they’re truly sorry? How can you ever trust them again?”

He sighs. “I guess you don’t. Not really. But I think they really would like the chance.”

My eyes sting with unshed tears. “And if they break your heart again?”

Connor’s gaze locks with mine, his eyes burning with intensity. “They won’t.”

“She just wants him to be honest with her.”

“And he just wants her to trust him.”

We stare at each other for a long moment, and I want to reach out and touch him, to feel his skin against mine.

What in my stupid brain is still holding me back? It’s as if the fear of being hurt again, of having my heart shattered, is almost paralyzing. Because I know he has the power to do it.

“Guess they’re both pretty fucked up,” I say instead, turning back to the TV.

Connor laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Aren’t we all?”

Are we fucked up?

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