“I am still extremely unhappy,” he says. “And if this man hurts you, I will end him in ways that keep me up nights.” He jerks his chin at Bran. “But I am…choosin’ to trust your judgment.”
My throat gets tight.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
He nods. “And I am leavin’ before I say somethin’ sentimental.” He points two fingers at Bran’s chest. “Make it official, Kelly. Preferably without traumatizin’ my cousin further.”
Then he’s gone, brushing past Jack with a murmur about coffee. Jack gives me a little salute and follows.
The door closes, leaving me and Bran and the soft beeping of the machines.
He stands there for a second, hat hair and hospital lighting and bruised shoulder, looking oddly…nervous.
“Did you hear that?” he asks.
“Which part?” I say. “The yelling? The threats? The part where you said you love me, or the part where Kael told you to propose without a ring?”
His ears go pink.
“So…all of it,” he says.
“Pretty much,” I say.
He scrubs a hand over his face.
“Right,” he says. “Well. That’s…saves me some breath, I guess.”
I watch him, my heart pounding in a way that has nothing to do with the monitor.
He steps closer to the bed.
Pulls the chair up so he’s right there, level with me.
Takes my hand again, careful, like it’s still breakable.
“For the record,” he says quietly, eyes on mine, “he didn’t talk me into anythin’ I wasn’t already planning to do. I’ve been in love with you for longer than I’ve had the guts to admit. To myself, never mind out loud.”
Emotion slams into me.
“You have?” I whisper.
“Aye,” he says. “Since before the snow. Since before Cotton’s. Since the first time you argued with me and made me feel like somebody had finally seen past all the bullshit and still wanted to stand there.”
My eyes spill over.
He lifts our joined hands and presses his lips to my knuckles.
“I love you, Twiggy Gentry,” he says. “Not because you’re tough, or clever, or any of the things he tried to twist into somethin’ ugly. I love you because you’re you. Because you kept choosin’ to stand back up. Because you make this place feel like somethin’ I want to belong to instead of just pass through.”
My throat is a fist.
“And yeah,” he adds, a shaky smile ghosting his mouth, “I want what comes with that. I want mornings with your coffee. I want to trip over your shoes by my front door. I want to know that if somebody asks you who your idiot is, you’ll point at me.”
I laugh, watery.
“And if somebody asks you who your idiot is?” I ask.
“I’ll point at you,” he says without missing a beat. “We’ll be idiots together.”
