Saturday night is busy. And I'm closing. I get caught up in the noise and the demands. I don't stop to rest or to think until I'm tallying my receipts. Even then, it takes all my mental energy to tap the numbers into my phone.

The chatter of work drifts away on my ride home. I park my bike in the garage. Slip into the house. Climb the stairs as quietly as possible.

All the lights are out except for the one in Brendon's bedroom.

Emma's asleep.

I'm about to slip into my room and find a way to stay busy—to keep that confession from rising up my throat, to keep my thoughts of Grandma stuffed into the box where they belong—when Brendon pulls his door open.

He's standing there, one hand in the front pocket of his jeans, the other on the doorframe, his t-shirt hugging his shoulders just so.

There's practically a beautiful distraction arrow pointing at his head. Like something in a cartoon.

Already, the words are clawing at my throat.

I need to tell him.

I need him to know and to stay.

To still love me.

Does he love me now?

I don't know. I'm sure he loves me as a friend, that he has for a long time, but this whole in love thing is new. Confusing.

He reaches for me. His arm slides around my waist. In one quick motion, he pulls me inside his.

He stares down at me with those intense, dark eyes. Right now, I know exactly what's in them. Affection. Trust. Need.

His eyelids flutter together.

He leans down.

I rise to my tiptoes.

Our lips brush. Just barely. But it's enough to fill my body with warmth. With need. With love.

My fingers go slack. My bag hits the hardwood floor with a light thud. It's loud enough to wake Emma, but I don't care.

I don't care about anything but getting my hands in his thick, dark hair.

I don't care about anything but kissing him back.

He tastes like whiskey. It shouldn't taste good, but it does. It tastes like him.

I kiss him harder.

Deeper.

I shift my hips against his. Tug at his hair. Groan against his lips.

He feels better than he tastes.

He's everything I want.

Well, almost.

I can't risk that.

But, then, I can't swallow this down much longer.

I kiss him until my lips are numb. When I finally come up for air, he's staring back into my eyes.

"Nice to see you too." He pulls the elastic band from my hair, undoing my ponytail. "Work good?"

"Busy." I have to tell you something. I'm broken. I know you won't believe me, so let me explain. I rise to my tiptoes. Kiss him again. Anything to keep the words from spilling.

He untucks my shirt. Undoes the top button. Then the next. His fingers brush my collarbones. My chest. My stomach.

I need those hands on my body.

I need one more time pressed against him—just in case he doesn't keep loving me.

Just in case he runs away.

I pull back with a heavy sigh. My eyes go straight to his. Brendon, I have to tell you something.

It's been eating at me for weeks. Longer even. I wanted to tell him when it happened. I wanted to tell him the first time I had an ugly thought.

I want him to save me from it.

I know it doesn't work that way. I get it now. But there's still a part of me that thinks he can wipe everything away.

No, I know he can.

Just only for a little while.

"You're thinking something." His fingertips skim my jawline.

I'm thinking a lot. And it's all on the tip of my tongue. Either I go back to my room or I tell him. Those are the two options. I'm not sure which is worse.

His palm presses against my cheek.

Fuck, his skin against mine—

The comfort of the gesture—

I need that right now.

And I need him to know.

I stare back at him. "That I need a shower."

He motions to his bathroom. "I'll join you."

Yes. That's perfect.

I nod. Follow him into the bathroom. Take my time stripping him out of every layer. He does the same.

Then I step into the tub and I soak up every drop of him.

* * *

After, we help each other towel dry and collapse in his bed.

I shouldn't sleep here. I shouldn't even be here with Emma in the next room.

But I can't tear myself away.

It feels too good, having his warm, wet skin pressed against mine.

He wraps his arms around me. One under the crook of my neck. The other over my waist, his palm resting on my stomach.

I'm in his arms, my back against his chest, his breath warming my neck.

I should be melting.

I should be forgetting everything.

But those words are screaming at me.

Brendon, I have to tell you something.

It's a simple enough start. Ominous, yeah, but simple.

"Hey." He runs his fingers through my wet hair. They skim my ear. My neck. My shoulder. It's impossibly soft. Like he's trying to drive me crazy.

"Hey yourself." I lean into his touch. My eyelids flutter together. Fuck, that feels good. He feels good. All of this—I can't lose it.

But I can't keep hiding this.

I need him to know.

It should be simple. I need Brendon to know. So I tell him.

But my mouth is sticky.

My hands are numb.

Everything is heavy.

"Your grandma?" He traces a line down my arm, all the way to the tip of my index finger, then back up to my shoulder. It's slow. Sweet. Affectionate.

He does it again, only this time he traces my middle finger.

Then my ring.

Then my pinkie.

We lie in silence for minutes. Until I can't feel the bliss of his touch. Until I can't feel anything but the weight of this secret crushing my chest.

It's everywhere. In the air. In the moonlight. In the soft cotton sheets. In his fingertips.

On my lips.

"Kay." His lips brush my ear. My neck. "Whatever it is, you don't have to talk about it."

I nod.

He kisses me again. It's a sweet kiss. Not I want you or I need you or I'm going to fuck you again.

It's I love you.

"But you can." He draws circles on my shoulder. "Anything."

"I want to." I do. Really, I do. My desire is so big and bright it's casting everything else in glare. Every single one of my thoughts is tuned to this frequency.

"Yeah?" He plants a kiss on my shoulder.

"But I don't want you to look at me differently."

"I won't."

"How can you promise that?"

"Did you kill someone?"

"No."

"Do you really want to fuck Dean?"

My laugh breaks up the tension in my shoulders. "Murder and lust for Dean are equally bad in your eyes?"

"Fuck no." He presses his palm into my stomach to pull me closer. "Lust for Dean is a million times worse."

"Really?"

"You have no fucking idea what it does to me, the way he flirts with you."

But I do. I see the way his jaw cricks, the way his fists form, the way his eyes fill with jealousy. "He does it to get to you."

"It works."

"It did work. We're here."

"You're giving him credit for this?"

"Well... doesn't he deserve a little?"

"Maybe." The playfulness falls from his voice. It's back to soft and sweet. "But I'm not giving him credit."

"That doesn't seem fair."

"What is?"

"True." None of this is fair. Not that I need a pill to feel okay. Not that Grandma is sick. Not that my parents are middle class when Brendon and Emma's are rich.

But it's not fair that their parents are gone. Or that I was born smart. Or with a nice figure.

Or that he's almost mine.

That really isn't fair and it's all in my favor.

"Life isn't fair. But you can't use that as an argument for everything," I say. "Otherwise, what's the point of fairness? Of justice?"

"You're such a smart girl, Kay."

"Why don't I like the sound of that?"

"You should." He intertwines his fingers with mine. "There's nothing you can tell me that will change the way I look at you."

I shake my head. "You can't promise that."

"Maybe I lack imagination, but I can't think of a single thing."

Because he'd never think of this. I have everyone convinced I have my shit together. And, mostly, I do.

It's just, sometimes I don't.

I've been healthy for a long time now. But that can't last forever.

"I don't want you to promise that." It's more that I know he can't. That it will hurt too much if he does. "I don't want you to promise you won't leave. Because you might. And I don't want you to stay out of obligation."

"Kay..."

"Don't tell me there's nothing. Because you don't know what this is."

"Okay." His voice is some tone I've never heard. An understanding one.

He drags his fingertips back up my arm. All the way to my shoulder.

It's funny. I'm naked. I've been naked this whole conversation, but I feel like I'm about to strip out of everything.

This might scare him away.

I might lose him forever.

I suck a breath between my teeth. My exhale is heavy enough my hands shake. No. They're still shaking.

I'm shaking.

"I..." Too many words rise up in my throat. They knock together. They take over my head and my lips and my heart.

Then he's running his fingers through my hair with that impossibly soft touch.

And I'm still terrified to lose him.

But it's scarier, the thought of being alone with this forever.

"I don't know a better way to say this." My hands are shaking, but I press on. "I'm broken."

He doesn't say anything. He just combs his fingers through my hair again.

"I have depression. I guess that's normal. Relatively. But I... last year. That was when it started. It was before Grandma's heart attack. It wasn't because of anything. Everything got hard. Heavy. Food didn't taste as good. My favorite books no longer entertained. It was like I was moving through water. It took so much energy to make dinner or clean my room. Or even get out of bed in the morning. I couldn't sleep, but I didn't want to do anything else."

His fingertips brush my neck. My shoulders.

I can't see his face. I have no idea how he's taking this. But I can't wait to know.

I need to get this out. All of it.

"Then I started having these thoughts. I'd be driving Mom's car up the 405 and I'd think about crashing into the divider. Or I'd see sleeping pills in the cabinet and think about downing the bottle. Or look at some tall building, and try to figure out if I could actually get to the roof. I didn't make plans to kill myself. But the thought of it—of not hurting anymore—it was tempting. And I... I felt like everyone would be better off if I wasn't dragging them down. Then I'd think about how sad my parents would be and I'd feel guilty and that would only make it worse."

He pulls me closer.

"I understand now. It's my messed-up brain chemistry. I take medication. I see a therapist. She helped me understand a lot of it. And the medications stops most of the thoughts. But not always. Sometimes they flood my head, and I can't stop thinking I'll never be good enough. Sometimes, things get heavy again. It's short phases now. But it might be longer one day. Medications stop working. Life gets stressful. And I... one day, those voices might be loud enough to convince me to do it."

I'm still shaking.

I want, so badly, to turn around and look in his eyes. To figure out what he's thinking. But I can't. If it's bad, I'll lose my nerve. Then I'll never get this out.

I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. "I need you to know. It's not a phase. It's forever. I'm always going to be broken—"

"You're not broken."

"You can use another word, but it will mean the same thing. My brain is fucked up. It will always be fucked up. I'm always going to be fighting the voice that tells me I'm worthless. That everyone would be better off if I wasn't around. Can you really love someone like that? Someone who might fall and end everything?"

"Are you thinking about it now?"

"No. It's been awhile since I've really considered it. But I still have fleeting thoughts. And I always will. I just... I want you to know the reality. I see how you look at me. Like I'm heaven sent. But I'm not."

Slowly, he turns me around. His hand goes to my chin. He tilts my head so we're face-to-face.

I keep my gaze on his chest for as long as I can stand it.

My eyes meet his.

He's... I don't know. I just don't.

He cups the back of my head with his hand. "Thank you."

What?

I...

Huh?

"It's an honor, you sharing that with me."

What? I blink a few times. Everything gets blurry.

I'm crying.

"You... you don't want to leave?" A tear rolls down my cheek and falls off my jaw. It lands on my shoulder.

"Never."

"But I... You... You hate complicated."

"No. I just never met someone worth complicated." He stares back into my eyes. "Are you taking care of yourself? Taking your meds? Seeing your therapist?"

"Yeah."

"And everything else?"

I nod. "Aren't... aren't you scared?"

"I'm always scared of bad shit happening to you. But this, no—I'm not scared that you have depression. Or that you've been suicidal."

"But one day... I might... what if I..."

"You think about it that much?"

"I did. It was scary. I didn't trust myself. I guess I still don't."

He stares back into my eyes. "Nobody can promise they'll be okay forever. I don't care that you need a little chemical help, Kay. You're still the sun in my sky. You're gonna struggle, yeah, but I want to be there for that. I want to be the person holding you up when shit is bad."

"I... you... you're not leaving?"

"No."

I stare back at him, blinking away tears until my vision is blurry.

He plants his palm on my check and wipes my eyes. "Are these happy or sad?"

"Both. And everything else. I... I just can't. I thought... I thought you'd leave."

He shakes his head. "There isn't a single part of me that wonders if you're good enough for me."

"Really?"

"Not even a molecule."

The weight lifts off my chest.

My hands stop shaking.

I...

He...

Maybe things will be okay.

He leans in to press his lips to mine.

It's an I love you.

We haven't said the words.

But I can feel it.

He knows.

And he's staying.

And he loves me anyway.