T hat evening, when Dex's bike rumbled into the bakery's small parking lot, I found myself studying his face with new eyes.

Forty-four years had carved lines around his eyes, deepened the brackets around his mouth.

He looked like what he was—a man who'd lived, who'd seen things, who'd survived enough damage to know exactly what he wanted from life.

What could someone like him really want with someone like me?

He swung off the bike with that easy confidence that came from years of experience, and I was struck again by how much more he was than me.

Not just older but fuller somehow, like a finished painting next to my rough sketch.

His hands had built things, fixed things, created those beautiful toys that lined his apartment.

My hands had just learned to stop shaking.

"How was your first day?" he asked, settling his hand on the small of my back as we walked to his bike. The gesture that usually made me feel cherished now made me hyperaware of our differences—his strength compared to my fragility, his certainty compared to my confusion.

"It went well," I said, but there was distance in my voice that hadn't been there this morning. "Mrs. Kowalski seems happy with me."

I could feel his confusion in the way his hand hesitated against my back, the way his eyes sharpened with concern. Somehow, he knew.

"Cleo?" The question in my name was clear. Something's wrong. Tell me.

But how could I explain that I'd overheard the truth about what I was to him? Another young, broken thing looking for a protector. Vanessa 2.0, now with bonus daddy issues and a secret that could get him killed.

"Just tired," I said, accepting the helmet he offered.

The ride to his apartment felt different. I still pressed against his back, still wrapped my arms around his waist, but my mind catalogued every point of contact differently. Was this how Vanessa had felt? Playing a role while planning betrayal?

The flip phone dug into my hip, reminding me I was already halfway to becoming her.

At his apartment, the usual comfort of the space felt suffocating. I couldn't bring myself to curl into my usual spot on the couch. Instead, I stood by the window, arms wrapped around myself, watching the street below like I was planning escape routes.

"Want me to make dinner?" Dex offered from the kitchen doorway, and I could hear the careful tone in his voice. The same tone he probably used with spooked horses or frightened children.

"Not hungry." The words came out flat, automatic.

When had I become someone who lied so easily? When had self-protection turned into deception? The phone in my pocket felt heavier with each passing minute, each lie by omission adding weight.

"Thought maybe we could spend some time in your little space," he suggested, and normally those words would have made me melt. The promise of safety, of letting go, of being cared for without judgment. "Got those new coloring books you wanted."

"I'm not really feeling little right now." Another lie. I desperately wanted to sink into that soft space where nothing mattered but staying in the lines and making pretty pictures. But how could I let him take care of me when I might just be a stand-in for someone else?

I heard him move closer but didn't turn from the window. His reflection appeared in the glass behind me, concern written in every line of his body.

"Cleo." His voice had shifted to the firm tone that usually made me pay attention. "What's wrong? You've been different since I picked you up. Did something happen at work?"

Something happened. Your past caught up with me. My past caught up with us. I'm lying to you with every breath, and I just found out I'm exactly your type—young, needy, ultimately cruel.

"It's nothing," I started, but he moved closer, and I could smell his cologne, that subtle scent that meant safety and home and everything I was about to lose.

"Don't lie to me." Gentle but firm, the kind of command that came from caring, not control. "We promised honesty, remember? Whatever it is, we can handle it together."

Together. The word broke something in me. There was no together when I was carrying threats he couldn't know about, when I might be nothing more than a replacement for his last mistake.

"Am I too young for you?" The question burst out, not what I'd meant to say but safer than the full truth. "The age gap—do you ever think about it? Wonder what people say?"

His reflection shifted, surprise flickering across his features. "Where's this coming from?"

"I just . . ." I pressed my forehead to the cool glass, words tumbling out in a rush.

"You're forty-four. I'm twenty-two. You've lived this whole life, have all this experience, and I'm just..

. I'm still figuring out how to be a person.

What could you possibly want with someone who needs help picking out work clothes? "

"Cleo, look at me." When I didn't turn, he moved closer, not touching but near enough that I could feel his warmth. "Please."

I turned slowly, making myself meet his eyes. Those dark eyes that had seen too much, that looked at me like I mattered.

"The age gap exists," he said carefully. "I won't pretend it doesn't. But what I want with you has nothing to do with your age and everything to do with who you are. Your strength, your humor, the way you see beauty in broken things. The way you trust me even when trust doesn't come easy."

"But I'm . . ." Fragile. Needy. Carrying secrets that could destroy everything. "I heard some women talking today. About how you have a type. Young girls who need taking care of."

His jaw tightened. "Gossiping about Vanessa?"

The name sat between us like a loaded gun. I nodded, unable to form words around the knot in my throat.

"Vanessa was twenty when we met," he said quietly.

"But her age wasn't what attracted me. It was the way she seemed to need exactly what I could give.

Structure, safety, care. I thought I was helping her heal.

" His laugh was bitter. "But as you know, she was just playing a role to get close to the club. "

"And now here I am," I whispered. "Another young woman who needs structure and safety and care. How do you know I'm not—"

"Because you're not her." The certainty in his voice made me want to cry.

"You think I can't tell the difference between real vulnerability and manipulation?

You think I don't see how much it costs you to accept help, how hard you work to contribute, how you light up when you accomplish something on your own? "

I wanted to believe him.

"The age gap bothers you?" he asked when I didn't respond.

"Sometimes," I admitted. "When I think about how much more you know, how much more you've done. When I wonder if you'll get tired of waiting for me to catch up."

He moved closer then, hand coming up to cup my cheek with devastating gentleness. "I'm not waiting for anything. You're not a project to be completed, Cleo. You're a person I'm choosing to be with, exactly as you are right now."

I leaned into his touch despite myself, some part of me always seeking the comfort he offered even when my mind screamed warnings.

"I'm scared," I admitted, the one honest thing I could say. "Scared of not being enough. Of being too much. Of ruining this."

"Then we'll be scared together," he said simply. "But we don't run from it. We face it together, remember?"

I pressed my face into his chest, breathing him in, memorizing the moment. Because I knew, with the certainty of someone who'd lost everything before, that this safety was temporary.

I woke at 1am to the burner phone buzzing. Dex, somehow slept through it. I stared at the screen, panic rising, not daring to pick up. I let it ring out, and a few minutes later, it rang again.

I silenced it, and moments later, a message came through.

“You made your choice, Princess. Now you’re going to have to live with it.”