He lifted his head at my voice. It was the infamous Playboy Gray with his tangled, messy hair—all to hide the deep-blue eyes beneath. The iconic messy image of Grayson Crowne, the boy who doesn’t care, but in reality, it’s because he cares too much.

“Whatever this weight is on your shoulders, you shouldn’t have it…” I looked down, unable to stare into his burning eyes, fiddling with my thumbs. “Your shoulders will get stronger, though.”

Silence stretched until his choked voice called to me. “Come here.”

My heart was already close to shattering, but I couldn’t say no to him. Not because he didn’t give me a choice, but because my heart was wrapped around a wire, and he held the leash. When I was within distance, he grasped my wrist, tugging me into his lap.

He stroked the back of my neck, looking beyond, like he wasn’t aware I was even there.

“I had one fucking thing,” he said, still staring ahead, like he wasn’t talking to me. “When my father died, I filled the shoes as the patriarch, became the beam of support for my mother. I became a son for my grandfather…all I asked for was one fucking thing.”

He stopped talking, brow furrowed in thought, and cautiously I pushed the hair off his forehead.

“My mother, my grandfather, my sisters, this fucking house,” he continued. “Everyone needs a piece of Grayson Crowne. Fine, whatever, I just wanted one goddamn thing. Don’t marry my sisters off to assholes. Don’t let them marry someone like me. Which, admittedly, is like fishing for minnows in a sea of sharks.” He dragged his free hand down his face.

“Marrying someone like you wouldn’t be so bad,” I said.

His heavy eyes found mine, a look in them that strangled my soul.

“Yeah, Snitch, you’d marry someone like me?” He had a sardonic, self-deprecating tone, but I saw beneath that. To the hurt. The hope. And I knew I should lie, change the subject, to put some kind of frail armor around my already cracking heart.

“I would,” I whispered.

Pain splintered his blue eyes.

I’ve missed you, I almost said, missed these small moments where you trusted me enough to pull away your thorns…

But I stopped myself.

“Why do you share these things with me?” I asked instead. “Why don’t you let everyone know who you are?”

He paused, then said quietly, “I felt it shelter to speak to you.”

I frowned. Why did that sound familiar? Then—“Emily Dickinson!”

A small smile broke his lips, and the soft, tender way he watched me wrecked me more than anything.

“You know a lot of poetry for someone who claims to hate it,” I said.

“Someone once told me I could fix the unfixable with poetry.”