Page 154 of The Love Operation

“Were we still together?” I manage. “Were we still dating when it happened?”

His mouth doesn’t move for what feels like forever. Then finally, “Yes.”

My heart stumbles. I feel the words like hot tar before I say them. “And you . . . you didn’t tell me.”

He looks down at his hands. “No.”

“Why?”

“Because I already knew I was going to end it.” He says it simply, like he’s carried it for years, like he always knew it was the only answer. “I knew we couldn’t stay together before the accident, but that day . . . It cemented everything. You had fire. Direction. Drive. You were so close to everything you’d worked for. And I knew you’d show up for me. You’d be there in a second if I asked.”

He meets my eyes, and there’s so much in them—grief, guilt, love—it almost breaks me.

“But I couldn’t ask.” His voice drops lower.

A long beat.

“You would’ve stayed for me, Cord. You would’ve missed things for me. And back then . . . I didn’t believe I was worth it.”

My lips part, but nothing comes out. I’m too full—of disbelief, regret, something sharp and aching.

And it feels like déjà vu.

Because my family didn’t tell me. They stayed silent so I could keep moving, keep achieving. So I wouldn’t be held back from pursuit. Just like Benedict, they shut me out—afraid I’d take over, barrel in, make decisions before they were ready.

I smother the people around me. Hold them hostage on the path I’m sprinting.

I press a hand to my chest, like I’m trying to hold something in. Or maybe keep myself from falling apart.

“You’re right,” I whisper. Nausea coils in my gut as the truth settles. It’s miserable. “But it hurts.” My whisper is so faint, I doubt he could hear me.

But I think Tad Cooper does. He’s watching me from the middle of the room, eyes steady, his skin tinged with the soft blue hue of reassurance—like he knows I need the calm. Like he’s offering it, quietly, from the coffee table.

“I’m sorry for the hurt I caused. I wish I’d been strong enough to tell you all of this sooner.”

“Thank you, Benedict.” I press both palms into the carved arms of the chair until I feel the indentations in my skin.

The house creaks slightly under the weight of the wind that’s picked up.

“I think this is the exact right time. I’m not sure if I would’ve heard you before now.”

“I feel the same way. There have been many times I wanted to contact you, but something always stopped me. Until now.”

“Until now,” I echo.

Then something in the air shifts—not sound, but pressure. I feel it low in my belly. I see it in the intensity gathering behind Benedict’s eyes.

Suddenly, I’m too aware of my own breath, the feel of my clothes against my skin, the magnetic pull between us that feels both dangerous and inevitable.

This is another thing I didn’t see coming, but I should have.

You can’t share a night like this with someone you still have feelings for and not expect something to catch fire.

Tonight, Benedict has been my friend. My light in the fog. A safe space in the storm.

But right now—

He is not safe at all.