Page 194 of King of Pain

“I feel a little guilty,” he admits, voice quieter. “But I’ve donesomuch work, Chance. Years of therapy. Separating what they did to me from my own desires. Practicing forgiveness. Forgiveness for what they did. For my parents’ silence. Forgiveness I’ll never speak aloud to any of them, but…” He swallows. “But forgiveness that’s mine. That I earned.”

A tear slips down his cheek, and I reach up gently to brush it away with my thumb, then tuck my hand around the side of his neck.

He exhales again, heavier this time. “And I know how these things go. The Church will ride out the headlines, pay-off who they have to, move the priests around, and pretend it’s been handled.”

His eyes meet mine. “Is it worth unwinding all the work I’ve done? All the peace I’ve gained?”

I rub my hand over his bicep. “Hey. You don’t need to do anything you’re not ready for. That peace you’ve found? That’s worth more than any amount of blood money they could throw at this.”

He nods, lips tight. “Yeah. I wouldn’t want a dime from them anyway. I just—” He trails off and looks away, voice breaking a little. “The guilt creeps in when I think about the next kid. Hiding in the back of a wardrobe.”

I slide off my chair and kneel in front of him, cradling his face in both hands and locking eyes with him.

“Hey. It’s awful. I know. But you can’t solve the world’s problems. You can’t save everyone.”

He picks at the fabric of his jeans; his face etched with conflict. “Yeah, but what if my voice makes a difference?”

I study him for a long second, then ask gently, “Do you think it will?”

He shakes his head. “Honestly? No.”

“Then fight another way.”

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

I hold his gaze. “The non-profit you want to start with your agency. You said you wanted to support survivors—queer kids, female athletes, people who've been through it. What if you had a sector that focused specifically on this kind of abuse? Gave survivors a place to go. A person whogetsit.”

Something shifts in his expression. A glint of clarity behind the grief.

He nods slowly, eyes dropping to his hands again. I lift his chin gently so he’s looking at me.

“Everything you just told me,” I say, “about reclaiming your body, your identity, your peace… that’s power, Ant. That’s yours. And they can’t take it. You could teach others to take theirs back too.”

His lips part just slightly, and an almost relieved look washes over his face.

“Fuck, I love you,” he whispers. “That—that’sexactly what I want to do.”

I climb back into my chair and lean toward him, press a kiss to his lips.

“I love you too, Beautiful.”

We finish eating and clean the kitchen together. “I think it’s a Rob Lowe night,” I say, tossing the dish towel over my shoulder. “St. Elmo’s Fire?”

Ant grins, eyes lighting up. “Ooh, Rob Lowe. Yum. Yes. I’ll make the popcorn.”

I cue up the movie on the TV, humming the theme song under my breath while Ant disappears into the kitchen. A few minutes later he returns with a heaping bowl of popcorn in one hand and a pack of Red Vines in the other, setting both in front of us.

Just as he’s about to sink into the couch beside me, his phone buzzes from the coffee table. We both glance over. Unknown number.

Ant sighs. “Probably that attorney. Might as well get it over with and tell him I don’t want to be involved.”

I reach up and rub his arm. “I’m right here.”

He gives me a small nod and reaches down to answer it.

“Hello. Listen, I—”

Then his face changes.