"Good?" he asked quietly.
Matthew's thumb moved slightly, just a whisper of contact against the inside of my knee.
"I've done things I'm not proud of." Unshed tears began to burn in the corners of my eyes. "Not in combat or self-defense. It was part of the job."
Matthew's hand didn't move. His expression didn't change. He listened.
"I've lied to families about their missing sons. Coerced people who trusted my choices that put them in danger. I've used the identities of people who never knew what they were part of. And I remember it all. That makes me a dangerous witness."
Each confession peeled off a layer of armor, leaving me more exposed. "There are things I've been part of that would make you sick if you knew the details."
"Probably." Matthew nodded. "Doesn't mean you deserve to die for them."
He paused, just long enough for the silence to settle.
"And forgiveness—it matters. Especially when you didn’t fully understand what you were part of."
I’d braced for judgment and revulsion. Instead, he sat beside me like my past was merely another injury that needed tending.
Like he’d seen wounds before that didn’t make a man unlovable.
"You don't understand. The things I've done—"
"I understand enough." His thumb brushed across my knee again. "You were in an impossible situation, making impossible choices. That doesn't make you a monster."
"How can you know that?"
"Because monsters don't break down when they try to tell the truth."
The words settled into my bones like missing pieces finally sliding into place. I stared down at Matthew's hand resting against my knee, a simple point of contact that had somehow made confession possible.
"I've never told anyone that before. Any of it."
"I'm glad you told me."
For the first time in years, someone knew the worst of what I'd done and hadn't walked away. Matthew's thumb moved in a small circle against my knee, barely perceptible. "How does it feel? To say it out loud?"
I considered the question seriously. "Terrifying. And..." I searched for the right word. "Lighter, somehow."
"Good."
We sat quietly, his hand steady against my leg while I processed what had just happened. I'd expected disgust and rejection, plus demands for more details. Instead, I'd found acceptance without conditions.
Matthew shifted slightly, and his touch moved with him—palm sliding higher, thumb following the worn seam along my thigh. The movement was slow, giving me time to object.
I didn't want to object.
"This." I looked down at where his hand rested. "I don't know how to do this part either."
"What part?"
"The wanting."
Matthew turned toward me and raised his free hand, resting his palm under my chin. I resisted the instinct to pull back.In my experience, too often gentle caresses were a prelude to violence.
My body's needs overrode my brain, and I leaned into him. His thumb traced the sharp ridge of my cheekbone.
His other hand rose from my knee, reaching toward the other side of my face while his thumb explored the dark hollow beneath my eye.
