Smoke shrugs. “Tiff says she hasn’t seen you like this since before her mom died. Says you’re softer.”
“Get out of my kitchen,” I say immediately.
“Uh-huh,” he says, completely ignoring me. “So that’s a yes.”
Holley laughs, trying to hide it behind her coffee mug.
I glare at both of them.
Smoke drains his cup, sets it in the sink, and points a finger at me. “Soft looks good on you.”
“Leave,” I growl.
He leaves.
Holley bursts into quiet laughter once the door shuts.
I look at her sideways. “You think this is funny?”
“A little.”
I shake my head, but I can’t stop the tiny smirk tugging at my mouth.
She reaches across the table and traces a line along my forearm, just her fingertip, barely touching me.
“You are softer,” she says gently.
“I’m not,” I start to argue, but she gives me that look—the one that sees through bullshit the way headlights cut through fog.
I exhale.
“Okay,” I admit. “Maybe I am.”
She moves to sit in my lap without asking, without hesitation, and my arms circle around her instinctively. Like my body moves faster than my brain.
She cups my face. “You’re soft with me, Tony. Not with everyone else. That’s not weakness. That’s choosing who you let close.”
My throat tightens.
I rest my forehead against her shoulder. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“Yes, you do,” she whispers, stroking the back of my head. “You’re already doing it.”
“I still don’t want marriage,” I warn.
“I didn’t ask you to marry me.”
“And I don’t want you losing independence.”
“Good,” she says. “Because I’m not giving it up.”
“And I don’t want to cage you.”
“You’re not.”
“But I want you close,” I say, voice cracking slightly. “And that makes me feel?—”
“Human?”
