Page 49 of Soft
A knock at the front door made me whip my eyes to the clock. He was early.
Crap.
I was choosing to interpret this as eagerness rather than pressure. Paxton hadn’t forced me to invite him. He hadn’t even said heknewabout my secret. Sure, it was implied in his actions. That didn’t mean he was pressuring me though.
I let out a slow breath to calm down before I went to answer it. The minute I swung the door open, my nervousness flew out the window.
Paxton stood on my porch with two paper bags from the seafood place on the corner of Fifth that I had mentioned once in passing a few days ago. It wasn’t often I indulged there because spicy food could lead to heartburn.
The fact that he remembered meant a lot to me.
He had on a plain gray shirt, a pair of track pants, and his familiar ball cap. Lifting his hands, he said, “Hey, there. Can I come in?”
I startled once I realized I had been staring instead of inviting him in. “Yes, please! So sorry. I was… distracted.”
He chuckled softly as he passed me. I blushed at the sound, knowing it was because I basically admitted to ogling him.
I followed him as he went straight to the kitchen with the bags. He pulled containers out while I got plates and cutlery. We moved around the kitchen with a naturalness that should have felt strange given that he had never been this deep in the house before. Instead, it felt like the most ordinary thing in the world. Like we’d been doing it for years.
With plates in hand, we settled at the kitchen table. He had gotten enough food for a small army. Or maybe a baseball team. Inside, I giggled at the joke.
I suspected the choice was less about misjudging the quantity and more about wanting to make sure I had extras.
Surprisingly, I ate more than I had expected to. The knot in my stomach was gone, giving me the chance to enjoy each delicious bite.
Paxton didn't push. He talked about small things as we ate. A funny interaction he'd had with a neighbor that morning, a joke his dad had texted him, a question about the team's practice schedule he thought I might know.
The easy conversation that didn't require anything heavy from me. I was grateful for it even though I knew what was coming. He was giving me the space to get there in my own time.
When we finished, I cleared the containers away. He refilled both of our glasses of water, then dropped back into his chair. I joined him, looking at my hands for a moment.
"Macular degeneration," I said.
It wasn't how I’d planned to start. A structured approach that built context first and gave him information in a logical order was the original goal. What came out instead was much more abrupt.
Paxton, who’d been taking a sip of his water, set his glass down slowly, his eyes pinned on me. He didn't say anything at first. And best of all, his expression held no judgment.
"It's a disease that affects the central part of the retina," I continued. "The macula. Which means my central vision will deteriorate. What's directly in front of me gets harder over time. I've known for a while now. I just… I didn’t know how to tell you."
"You’ve known for a while?" There wasn’t a hint of anything to tell me how he was taking this news. Was he mad? Did it make him not want to be my Daddy anymore?
"Mmhmm. Since the first day we spoke. I had an appointment right after. My doctor gave me the news there, but I passed out. She later called me to go over it more."
His face went through a series of expressions. Almost like he was living out the timeline of things, of us, in comparison to my diagnosis.
"I have three to five years before significant central vision loss, depending on how the progression goes. There are treatments that can slow things. I have a follow-up scheduled. It isn't a guarantee either direction." I paused, gathering the nerve for what I needed to say next. "There is a possibility I could be classified as legally blind at some point. I’ll be significantly impaired in the center of my field of vision, meaning no driving or anything where I’d need to see clearly."
Paxton paused before saying, "Are you scared?"
The question tore the breath right out of me. I’d prepared for questions about the medical specifics or about my business. Possibly even about what it meant practically. I’d not prepared for that one.
"I'm scared of losing the ability to work. Of not being able to do the job the way I've built it. I'm scared of being too much. Of someone deciding that the accommodation isn't worth the person on the other side of it."
"Baby," he groaned.
Ignoring the way the sound sent heat through me, I forged ahead. "I know what I look like from the outside. The size of me, the job I do. People expect me to be the one who carries things. The idea that I might need to be carried isn't an easy sell in a relationship."
He leaned forward, forearms on the table, gaze locking me in place. "I'm not scared."
