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The question leaves me before I can soften it. Ollie stills. I press my fingers briefly to my lips, regretting the sharp edge of the words even though I don't regret the truth underneath.
“Sorry. That sounded harsher than I meant.”
His voice is quiet as he nearly whispers, “no.”
He’s watching me with an expression I can't quite name. It’s raw and worried and painfully open. It would be easier if he were angry or upset. If he snapped, I could snap back. But he doesn't do that, avoiding the conflict to the final moment.
“I was in a relationship where my opinions were treated as meaningless. Nathan would ask what I thought sometimes, but only when he wanted me to agree with him,” I explain.
Ollie's face hardens at his name, but he says nothing. “I'm not comparing you to him,” I add before he can decide that is where this is going. “You're nothing like him.”
His gaze softens, but the hurt remains. “Then why does it feel like I just stepped on an emotional landmine he left behind?”
“Because you did,” I whisper the truth. “Not because you caused it, but because the hurt is still there. It’ll be there for a long time.”
His face crumples with regret, and I hate that I’m the reason for it. This isn't about making him carry my issues. It's about helping him understand what went wrong earlier tonight.
“I want to be very clear. I'm not asking you to choose between me and Livia. I would never ask that. I don't want you to help her less or be anything other than the brother she clearly needs right now,” I tell him. “I fell in love with the part of you that takes care of people even when you're exhausted. I fell in love with the man who learned how to make bottles, put bows in baby hair, and remember everyone's drink order because caring for people is his love language.”
His Adam's apple bobs. “Peyton…”
“Don’t. You have to understand that I don't want to become another person you take care of while making all the decisions alone. We’re a team. Let me help you carry the load.”
He looks away then, and this time I let him. His eyes fix on the sidewalk, on the building and on a crack near his shoe. On anything except my face.
“I thought I was making it all easier,” Ollie says, still not looking at me.
“For who?”
“For everyone, I guess.” A broken little laugh escapes him, but it fades quickly. “If I'd asked you during dinner, you would've said yes.”
“Probably.”
“So part of me keeps wanting to say the outcome would've been the same.”
“Would you like me to agree with that assessment?”
He finally makes eye contact with me. “No, because the outcome isn't the point, is it?”
I shake my head. His gaze drifts toward the apartment windows above us, warm light spilling through the glass. “I've spent so long making decisions before anyone could take them away from me. Food, money, where Chase was sleeping, whether Liv was safe, whether I could trust the adults in the room. I got good at choosing fast because sometimes waiting meant losing the opportunity to be in control.”
“I understand that.”
That earns me the saddest smile I've ever seen on his face. “But then I didn't look at you for confirmation about something that impacts us both,” he says and the words sound like they cost him. “Jesus, Peyton. You were sitting right there, and I didn't look.”
My eyes burn. I hate that this is the moment making me want to cry. Not the decision or the confusion. This. Him finally seeing the dinner through my eyes.
“No,” I whisper. “You didn't.”
Ollie reaches for me then, the movement slow enough for me to move away if I want to. I don't. His hand settles against my cheek, thumb brushing beneath my eye before a tear can fall further. The touch is so gentle it nearly undoes every bit of composure I have left.
“I'm so damn sorry,” he says with a broken voice.
I close my eyes and lean into his palm. “I believe you.”
We stand there in the middle of the sidewalk, close enough that anyone passing by might mistake us for a couple sharing a tender moment instead of one trying not to crack their hearts wide open. Maybe both things are true. Maybe this is what still loving someone looks like when it stops being easy for the first time.
“I don't want you to leave,” he says, the words desperate.
