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“I’m going to brush it, too,” he says, his mouth on my neck. I nod, though he didn’t ask a question.

After he dries my body with the soft towel, wraps it around his waist, and slips his shirt over my head, he brushes my hair while we sit on the mess of my bed. I try to lay next to him, but he shakes his head with a soft, “Come here,” pulling me to rest against his chest where he’s propped up against my headboard.

I’m sleepy and soft, but he still feels tense. Almost antsy.

“Was that . . . okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” I offer, pulling his hand to my mouth to kiss his fingers. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. Why?”

The question is fast enough that my brow furrows. “If something is bothering you, we can talk about it.” A darker thought rises, and I debate for a long moment if I should say it or ignore it. The girl I’ve been for years would ignore it. But I want something real with Bennett.

“If something is bothering you,” I try again, “sex isn’t going to make it go away.”

“Do you regret it?” he asks, a lump in his throat.

I turn in his arms to look at him, eyes pleading as I lift his chin to meet my gaze. “God, no, Bennett. But I don’t want . . . I don’t want you to use—”

His eyes go wide, body sitting upright as his arms leave my sides. Head sinking into his palms, he begs, “No . . . God, no, P. I’m so sorry—I would never . . . I’m not using you. I swear I wasn’t. I-I—”

“Bennett,” I stop him, firm and loud. I slide to kneel between his thighs and sit back on my heels as I cup his entire face in my hands, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. “I would never think you were using me. Never. I just want to make sure that you can talk to me, if something is hurting you.”

“Like you did with me?”

I flinch back slightly. He shakes his head but continues to let me hold him. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“No. I deserved that one.” A breath chokes me, but I continue. “I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I just . . . I wasn’t okay.”

“But you’re okay now?” There’s hope there in his words and I grasp it with two hands.

“Yeah. At least, I’m trying.” I settle back against the headboard next to him, my legs over his waist as he skims his fingers over my calf and holds my ankle. “Actually, I’ve been going to therapy.”

It feels ridiculous to be embarrassed by admitting it. Everyone and their mother goes to therapy now—it’s normal; healthy, even.

A grin, however small, breaks across Bennett’s face. “Yeah? That’s . . . that’s great, P.”

I nod, chewing on my lip.

“How long have you, um, been going? If you want to tell—”

“I started at the beginning of the semester. I’m . . . I’m trying, to be different than I was.”

“Did you go as a kid?”

I shake my head. There was a court-ordered therapist once, when my mom had been investigated by CPS. But I don’t think that counts.

“No, but I think it’s helping. So”—I shrug with a half grin—“yeah. Maybe one day I won’t be so broken.” It’s a joke, but Bennett doesn’t laugh.

“You’re not broken, P,” he whispers, squeezing my calf and dragging me fully into his lap. His hand reaches for mine, and he massages my palm and fingers as he speaks. “You’re not. But I think therapy is great. It’s always helped me.”

I nod with a gentler smile this time. Because to know he still feels that way, that he sees me as something whole and wonderful, not the truly broken thing that I am. It feels like hope.

Like the first splash of cool water after a starting dive.

“We should get dinner tomorrow.”

His eyes widen, body tensing beneath me. “Like . . . a date?”