"I know." I kissed her temple, that soft spot that made her melt a little. "But I wanted to understand you. Who you are beyond the sex—because Jesus Christ, the sex was good, but that's not the point. What matters to you. What you've built. What you're protecting."
I paused, because this next part was important and I needed her to hear it. "I didn't want to make my needs first before knowing what the fuck is on your shoulders, knowing you better."
She went quiet. Not the awkward kind, but the processing kind, like her brain was a computer with too many tabs open. "What did you learn?"
"That you're first-generation success." I said it quietly, because these kinds of truths deserved softness. "Your parents came here with $200 and a dream. You put yourself through Berkeley and Stanford on scholarships and student loans you're still paying off. You work sixteen-hour days because you're terrified of losing what you've built. You send money home every month without fail."
