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The cab was long gone, swallowed by the road, but Robert still stared after it like if he looked hard enough, the taillights might flicker back into existence. His hands were shoved so deep in his pockets they ached from the cold metal of his keys, but he didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
Aaron stood a few steps behind, silent, letting the quiet stretch until Robert’s shoulders finally gave the smallest, defeated slump.
“Let’s go home,” Aaron said, voice low and steady.
Robert turned without a word. They walked the short distance to the mill side by side, frost crunching under their boots, breath fogging white in the February dusk. Inside, the warmth wrapped around them like a blanket. Aaron locked the door, then turned to find Robert standing motionless in the middle of the living room, eyes fixed on nothing.
“If she loved me,” Robert whispered, the words scraping out raw and broken, “then why did she leave me?”
He didn’t look at Aaron. Couldn’t. The question hung there, small and enormous at the same time, the same words he’d hurled at Vic through the cab window. It had been meant to wound her, to get her to stay. It had wounded him more, infinitely more.
Aaron crossed the space between them in three quiet steps. He wrapped his arms around Robert from behind, chin settling on his shoulder, chest pressed to Robert’s back. Robert went rigid, then shattered.
The first sob was almost silent, a choked gasp that ripped through him like something tearing loose inside. Then another, deeper, until the tears came hot and unstoppable, soaking Aaron’s sleeve, his collar. Aaron held him tighter, then slowly turned him around, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of Robert’s neck, fingers threading into his hair, rocking them gently, barely moving, just enough to say I’m here, I’m not going anywhere.
He knew this grief. The quiet, bone-deep kind Robert only let out when the walls were down and the world was shut out. Aaron had held him through versions of it before—after discussions, after prison, after every time Robert convinced himself he’d finally pushed too far and no one would stay. But this one felt older, sharper. This one had roots that went back to a boy who’d learned too young that being loved meant being useful, being perfect, being anything but himself. A boy who grew up to become a man who believes people would never forgive him.
Aaron didn’t speak. Just held him, letting Robert cry until the sobs turned ragged and exhausted, until his knees threatened to buckle and Aaron had to guide him to the couch.
They sank down together. Aaron sat first, pulled Robert between his legs so he could curl against him—knees up, face buried in the crook of Aaron’s neck, hands fisting the front of Aaron’s jumper like it was the only thing keeping him tethered.
Aaron wrapped both arms around him, one locked around Robert’s waist, the other stroking slow, endless lines down his back. Warm. Steady. No rush.
Long minutes passed in silence. Just the sound of Robert’s uneven breathing slowly calming against Aaron’s skin, the faint creak of the mill settling, the distant hum of the village beyond the walls.
When Robert finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.
“She used to find me in the barn when I was angry,” he said. “Offer half her sandwich. Tell stupid jokes. Make me laugh after Dad and I fought.”
Aaron pressed his lips to Robert’s temple, lingering.
“I thought that meant something,” Robert continued, quieter. “That I wasn’t invisible. That maybe at least my little sister loved me for who I was.”
Aaron’s hand kept moving. Slow, soothing circles. “It did mean something.”
Robert’s fingers tightened. “Then why did she stop believing in me? She chose Andy. Then she chose John. Believed every word when people painted me as the fuck-up, the schemer, the bad one. Never trusted me, not really. Not enough to choose me.”
Aaron exhaled slowly through his nose, chin resting on the top of Robert’s head.
“I was always the black sheep,” Robert said, voice cracking on the words. Feelings coming out, there was no stopping them now. “The one who didn’t fit. The one Dad wrote off as broken before I even had a chance to prove otherwise. So I got angry. I schemed and pushed. Built walls so high no one could reach me. Pretended nothing touched me. Acted like I didn’t care. But I cared.” His voice broke during those last word. Aaron’s chest ached so fiercely he almost couldn’t breathe.
Robert tried to breath deeply, but it came out hitched. “So every time I messed up, every time I showed the ugly parts, people gave up. They didn’t forgive me and it just… it proved that I was right—there was something wrong with me. Something that couldn’t be fixed.”
Aaron shifted them both so they were lying down properly, Robert half on top of him, legs tangled, Aaron’s arms a solid shift around him, trying to make him feel as safe as possible.
Robert’s voice dropped even lower. “All I ever wanted was to love someone and to be loved without conditions. Without having to prove I was worth it. But I couldn’t say it, because men don’t do that, do they?” he said, as he let out a humourless laugh. “Except with you. You made me feel loved. And even then… I kept waiting for you to see I was not worth it. To give up like everyone else.”
Aaron’s hand slid up, thumb brushing Robert’s jaw. He pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “I won’t give up,” he said quietly. “And you are good enough, Robert. Exactly as you are.”
Robert let out a shaky breath. It still baffled him, to be loved like this. His fingers loosened their death grip on Aaron’s jumper, one by one, like he was afraid letting go completely would make the moment disappear. He didn’t pull away. He just stayed there, curled impossibly close, cheek pressed to Aaron’s collarbone, every slow exhale warm against Aaron’s skin.
Aaron felt the shift—the way Robert’s body finally stopped fighting to hold itself together. The tremors had faded to faint shivers, the kind that come after the storm has passed but the sky still feels too heavy. Aaron kept his arms locked around him, one hand splayed wide across Robert’s back, the other buried in his hair, thumb brushing the same soft rhythm over and over, like a heartbeat Robert could borrow.
The room was quiet except for their breathing and the low hum of the radiator. Outside, the village had gone still, as if the whole world had agreed to give them this small pocket of time.
Robert’s voice came out so soft it was almost lost against Aaron’s throat. “I keep thinking… if I’d been different. Less angry. Less… me. Maybe she wouldn’t have left.”
Aaron’s chest tightened so hard he forgot how to breathe for a second. He pressed his lips to the crown of Robert’s head, lingering there, letting the words settle between them instead of rushing to fill the silence.
“You were never too much,” Aaron said quietly. “You were just… a kid trying to survive a house that never made room for you. And then, a man trying to survive a life that kept challenging you in ways most wouldn’t survive.”
Robert swallowed. The sound was audible, painful. “I always thought if I tried hard enough. Protected hard enough. Proved I was worth keeping… someone would stay.”
Aaron’s hand stilled in Robert’s hair for a moment, then resumed, slower. “Vic loves you, Robert. She’s just drowning right now. Doesn’t mean she stopped choosing you in her heart. Doesn’t mean you failed her.”
Robert let out a small, shattered sound—half laugh, half sob. “Feels like I failed everyone. Including you. For years.”
Aaron shifted them slightly, just enough to tilt Robert’s chin up so their eyes met. Robert’s were swollen, red, glistening again. Aaron didn’t look away.
“You never failed me,” he said, voice low and rough with everything he felt. “You hurt me. I hurt you. We tore each other apart. But you never failed me. You came back. Every time. Even when you thought I’d never forgive you. Even when you thought you didn’t deserve it. You came back because that is who you are, caring and loving.”
Robert’s breath hitched. A fresh tear slipped free. Aaron caught it with his thumb, then leaned in and kissed the damp skin under Robert’s eye, soft, reverent.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Aaron whispered against his temple. “Not because you’re perfect. Not because you earned it. Because I love you. The angry you. The scared you. The scheming, messy, beautiful you. All of it. And I’m not leaving. Not tonight. Not ever.”
Robert closed his eyes. Another tear escaped. Aaron kissed that one too.
They stayed like that—foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling, Aaron’s hands never stopping their slow, soothing paths over Robert’s back, through his hair, along the nape of his neck. Robert’s body slowly melted against him, the last of the tension bleeding out until he was heavy, boneless, trusting in a way he rarely allowed himself to be.
After a long time, Aaron murmured against Robert’s hair, voice lighter now, teasing just enough to cut through the ache without dismissing it. “You know… if you keep crying on my jumper, I’m gonna have to make you pay for a new one.”
Robert huffed—a small, wrecked sound that almost passed for a laugh. His mouth curved, soft and fragile, like even smiling took strength he barely had left. But it was real. And it was there.
“Idiot,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion.
Aaron smiled into his hair, small and tender. “Your idiot.”
Robert didn’t reply. Just pressed closer, nose brushing Aaron’s collarbone, fingers loosening completely now, resting open-palmed against Aaron’s chest like he was memorising the steady beat underneath.
Not fixed.
Not even close.
But safe.
Seen.
Loved.
Exactly as he was—flawed, aching, messy, and finally allowed to be exactly who he was without apology. And for tonight, curled in Aaron’s arms with the world shut out, that was the most important thing.