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“It means consistency. It means if he needs something at two in the morning, I don’t get to say ‘that wasn’t negotiated.’”

“And?”

“And that’s not a scene. That’s partnership.”

The word sat between us.

“You think you can’t do that,” Theo said.

“I don’t know if I can.”

“That’s different.”

I let out a slow breath.

“He doesn’t disappear when he kneels. He doesn’t lose himself. That changes the dynamic. I can’t justify emotional distance by telling myself it’s safer for him. He’s steady.”

“And you respect that.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re afraid of mishandling it.”

Another hard swallow. “Yes.”

That was the truth of it. Not fear of being broken, but fear of doing damage.

Theo’s voice softened slightly. “I’ll say it again. You’re not the same man. You don’t conflate control with care now. You don’t change rules midstream. You listen.” He paused. “You’re evaluating risk as if it’s a business decision. It isn’t.”

“It has consequences.”

“So does not taking it.”

I leaned forwards, elbows on my knees.

“If I step into this, I don’t get to pretend it’s temporary.”

“No.”

“And if I keep him at arm’s length, I lose him.”

“Yes.”

There it was. I had a choice.

“I want him,” I said again. “In my life, not just in a scene.” Because scenes end. They’re designed to.

Lives don’t.

And I’d just uttered something that I couldn’t take back.

Theo exhaled quietly on the other end of the line. “Then stop negotiating with yourself and start deciding.” He paused. “Now stop talking to me and get some sleep.”

I snorted. “Hey, you sent me a text, remember?”

A pause. “Oops.”

“What’s wrong?”