Page 85 of The Endless Want

“It’s not that easy, Conor.” My voice comes out rough. “Every time I step near her, something in me cracks. She looks at me, and I can’t—fuck, I can’t get words out that don’t hurt her. I don’t know how to… be around her.”

“Because you never got over her,” Conor says quietly.

I don’t answer that. There’s nothing left in the drawer to answer it with.

Conor lets the quiet sit for a while. “Say it,” he murmurs. “Say what you’re afraid of.”

“I’m afraid I’ll fuck it up like I fuck everything else up.” I pace away from him, run a shaking hand through my hair. Every confession presses against the inside of my throat like it’s trying to claw free. “How am I supposed to be a father,” I grit out, “when I don’t even know how to love her without destroying her?”

Conor’s face softens—not pity, but something closer to brotherhood. “There it is,” he says. “Finally.”

I slam my hand against the bar, not hard enough to break anything, but hard enough to feel the pain. “She thinks I’m a monster.”

“She thinks you’re hurting,” he counters. “And she’s hurting too. But you’re too wrapped up in your own fear to see it.”

I glare at him. “You think this is easy for me?”

“No. I think you’re terrified.” Conor stands, steps toward me with the same steady calm he uses on men mid-breakdown. “And I think if you don’t figure out how to talk to her, you’re going to lose her. And the baby. For good.”

My throat locks. He’s right. I hate that he’s right.

When I don’t respond, Conor exhales sharply and grips my shoulder. “Come on.”

“What now?”

“You’re sobering up.”

“I’m sober.”

Conor doesn’t waste time—he punches me. Not hard enough to knock me out. Just hard enough to snap something into alignment inside my skull.

I stagger, grab the edge of the bar, and stare at him in stunned fury. “The fuck was that for?”

“To wake you up,” Conor says, cracking his knuckles. “You go dark when you drink. And when you go dark, you think the worst of yourself. And when you think the worst of yourself, you burn bridges that shouldn’t even be touched.”

I breathe hard, blood roaring in my ears.

He studies me for a long moment. Then he steps closer and speaks in a low, unwavering voice. “You have two choices now. Learn how to love them properly—or lose them both. No middle ground. No halfway. No hiding behind rage or guilt or excuses. Decide who the hell you want to be.”

Everything inside me goes still.

“Declan,” Conor finishes, “the war is coming. The Russians are circling. Ailish is pregnant. You don’t get to run from this. You step up, or you let her walk away. Those are the only terms.”

I drag in a breath. “I don’t want to lose her.”

“Then stop acting like a man determined to.”

I sit heavily on the barstool, elbows on my thighs, head bowed as the truth settles inside me. Finally, I lift my head. “I need… time.”

“You don’t have time,” he says quietly. “You need action.”

“I can’t just walk up to her tomorrow and pretend everything’s fine.”

“No one said pretend.” He folds his arms. “Start small. Show her you’re steady. Show her you can think clearly. Show her you can put her before your pride.”

My jaw clenches. “I don’t know how to do that.”

“Then learn,” he repeats. “Because that woman? And that child? They’re going to need the version of you that isn’t a weapon.”