"You lied. And we need to deal with that. Not because I'm angry, I'm not angry, but because I need you to know that you don't have to edit yourself with me. Ever. Not your age, not your experience, not the things you haven't done. I need the full version. Even the parts you think will scare me."
"The full version is a twenty-one-year-old virgin who lives in a shelter and has three shirts and cries about books in libraries."
"Was," I correct. "Was a virgin."
He blinks. Then, despite everything, the tears, the confession, the weight of the conversation, he laughs. A wet, shaky, surprised sound that breaks the tension like sunlight through clouds.
"Was," he repeats. "Past tense."
"Very much past tense." I wipe the tears from his cheek with my thumb. "And for the record? If you'd told me the truth last night, I wouldn't have stopped."
"You wouldn't?"
"I would have gone slower. I would have asked more questions. I would have checked in ten more times than I already did. But I wouldn't have stopped. Because you asked me not to. Because you made a choice, and your choices matter more than my anxiety."
"You say that now —"
"I say that because it's true. And because the pride spent a solid hour telling me that treating you like you can't make your own decisions is its own kind of condescension. Knox was very direct about it." I pause. "Knox is always very direct about everything."
"What did Knox say?"
"He said I was apologizing for wanting you when I should have been apologizing for making you think I didn't."
Devin's quiet for a moment. Processing. I can see the thoughts moving behind his eyes, the foster-care logic, the survival instincts, the careful calculations of a person who's spent twenty-one years managing other people's reactions. Weighing what I said against what he knows. Deciding whether to trust it.
"I don't know how to stop editing," he says finally. "It's — I've done it my whole life. With caseworkers. With foster parents. With everyone. I figure out what they need to hear and I give them that instead of the truth."
"I know."
"It's going to take time."
"We have time."
"You say that but —" He gestures vaguely. "I age out in less than two months. I have an apartment to save for. I'm twenty-one and I work in a café and my entire wardrobe fits in one bag. That's a lot of reality for someone to sign up for."
"I'm signed up."
"You barely know me."
"I know you read like breathing. I know you reorganize things when you're nervous and you cry about fictional characters and you put smiley faces on notes because you're afraid your words alone won't be enough. I know you wake up scanning for exits and fall asleep holding books. I know you lied to me last night because you wanted me and you were afraid the truth would make me stop." I hold his gaze. "That's not barely. That's a start."
He stares at me for a long time. The mask is gone. Fully gone, not just cracked but dissolved. What's underneath is rawand young and scared and hopeful and I want to spend the rest of my life making sure the hopeful part wins.
"I'm sorry I lied," he says.
"I know."
"I won't do it again."
"If you do, I'll notice. And I'll ask. And you'll tell me the truth. That's how this works."
"How what works?"
"Us." I kiss his forehead. "This thing. Whatever we're building."
"What are we building?"
"I don't know yet. Something with smiley faces and vending machine coffee and very intense opinions about Eragon."