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“But you were alone?”

“I’ve always been alone.”

His words stun me to silence, and I don’t speak again as Henry finishes his food. I don’t know what to say to make things better, or even if I should be trying to make things better. He’s here, he’s fine, he’s thriving. But I can’t help feeling like what he just told me is another reason why I can’t allow my own issues to affect him.

He told me he’d grown up in foster care, but I assumed he’d been nurtured, loved, and cared for by the same people his whole life. I never once considered that his life wasn’t the plot of “Little Orphan Annie.” Everyone has heard the horror stories on TV and in books about abusive, awful foster families and group homes. Is that what his childhood was like?

I want to ask—no, demand he tell me every detail, every good or bad, or awful thing that happened to him. But I won’t, because once again I’m thinking about what I want and not what he needs.

He hasn’t offered me any details about his childhood, and it’s not my place to force him to tell me. From the little I know about the atrocities that kids in the system endure, I’m guessing that a lot of his control was taken from him.

This is just another reason why I need to control myself and let him take the lead in our relationship. It goes against my nature not to dominate him, but as much as I want to take over his world, I can’t do that when it seems like he’s fought so hard for his independence.

Once we’ve both finished eating, I collect the plates and take them into the kitchen, loading them into the dishwasher while Henry silently lingers beside the kitchen counter.

“Can I help?” he asks.

“I’ve got this. Why don’t you put on the TV or go and take a shower?” I suggest.

“I don’t have any clothes with me.”

“I got you some stuff today. They’re on the bed upstairs.”

“You got me stuff?” he asks slowly, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“I realized after I dropped you off this morning that I didn’t tell you to bring an overnight bag with you.”

“An overnight bag? You want me to stay the night?” he asks, clearly confused.

I know I didn’t explicitly say I wanted him to stay here tonight, but surely he should have been expecting it? “Of course I want you to stay the night.”

“Oh.”

The small sound is adorable, and I can’t help it, I smile. “I just picked you up a few things.”

“What kind of things?” he asks.

“A toothbrush, some underwear, and something for you to wear to work tomorrow.”

“You brought me clothes?” he squeaks.

“Yeah. I know you’ll look hot as fuck in my clothes, but I don’t think I have anything except sweatpants that would fit you well enough for you to leave the house in them.” I laugh.

“So, you went and bought me clothes?” he asks slowly, his brow furrowed again.

“Yeah, but I had to guess at the size because I wasn’t sure. I hope they’re okay.”

His entire body language screams uncertainty and confusion. When he doesn’t say anything, I close the distance between us and kiss him lightly. “Should we get into our pajamas and watch some TV?” I suggest, wanting to settle him and hoping that our physical connection will ground him.

Blinking, he frowns, then nods. “Okay.”

“Awesome, let’s go take a shower, then you can pick something for us to watch.”

Taking his hand, I tow a stupefied Henry along behind me, climbing the stairs slowly to make sure he doesn’t fall. Leading him into the bedroom, I release his hand to turn on the light, then cross to the bathroom and start the shower.

Dragging my T-shirt over my head, I step back into the bedroom and find Henry frozen, his eyes fixed on the—bigger than I might have implied—pile of things I got for him today.

“Do you want to take a look?” I ask, unfastening the button on my pants and stepping out of them, leaving me in just my boxers.