Page 116 of Too Safe

He doesn’t reply right away. Instead, he arranges my limbs so he’s got me where he wants me. Until our bodies come together at a hundred different touch points. Finally, when I’m draped over him exactly to his liking, he asks, “When you say what we’re doing is more than hooking up…”

He lets the idea linger between us. He’s been open and vulnerable with me. I take a deep breath, mentally rallying my courage to do the same.

“I feel connected to you. You’re my safe space. The first one to be kind to me when I moved in. The first to view me as more than a liability. You’re the person I crave when the world feels like too much.”

He hums contentedly, but the moment is still charged. He may not expect anything more than what I’ve already shared, but I’m tired of holding back. Keeping secrets. Not trusting anyone fully. Not letting anyone know the real me.

“I want to tell you something now,” I offer. “The panic thing—”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Share something about yourself just because I shared.”

I smile against the warmth of his skin, peeking up to meet his gaze.

“How do you know that’s what I’m doing?” I tease.

He lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “There’s a discernible pattern to intimacy. Back and forth. Ebb and flow. Conversation should be reciprocal whenever possible.”

It sounds like he’s reciting some sort of dating manual or advice guide, which galvanizes me in a way I wasn’t expecting. Because everything we’re doing—this connection, both physical and emotional—takes concerted, intentional effort on Kylian’s part. He’s gone to extreme lengths to care for me and to please me.

He’s putting in the work. He thinks I’m worth the effort. That realization compels me to keep going.

“Iwantto tell you. Not because I’m obligated, but because I want you to know.”

He shifts, arranging me in a new position but still holding me close. From here, I can’t quite see his eyes. But I do see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, then nods.

“I panic when it rains. Sometimes a little. Sometimes a lot. The more intense the storm, the deeper and longer I feel it. My official diagnosis is conversion disorder… but that’s just a catchall for the way I physically shut down when it gets really bad.”

His chest rises beneath me, and I close my eyes to savor the feeling.

The feeling of this moment.

The feeling before I say it.

The feeling before he knows.

“There’s more.”

I haven’t even decided how much more I want to tell him, nor am I sure how much I can articulate. So I focus on the stained-glass panels of the cupola, staring for so long my eyes water. Hues of crimson, sapphire, and amethyst swirl together in a blurry oil slick before I finally blink away the tears.

“There was… this time. In high school. I was outside, in the middle of the night, stranded in a thunderstorm. I was on the side of the road, lying in a gutter. I passed out eventually, but before that…”

Anxiety claws at my throat as I fight to keep my breathing steady.

I wish I could tell him more. Tell him everything. But my sense of self-preservation has a vise grip on the details of what happened that night.

“I was out there until the next day. Left for dead. The panic became part of me that night,” I admit in a whisper. “It always happens like that. I feel overwhelmed, then panic takes over. Every storm. Every time.”

His abs crunch below my now-damp cheek as he rises up slightly and pulls me higher. He kisses my hair, then circles both arms around me in an embrace that feels just as safe as it did a few minutes ago.

I hold my breath, waiting for the follow-up questions. The judgment. Knowing Kylian, we’re just getting started. He’ll push for details and need more information.

He tightens his arms around me, as if to warn me it’s coming. Then he speaks.

“What did you think about between the lightning and the thunder?”

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