I huff. “Weak.”
“Human,” she repeats, kissing my temple.
I close my eyes.
She shifts slightly, straddling my thighs, hands sliding up to my jaw. “You don’t have to be hard all the time.”
“I don’t know how not to be.”
“That’s okay,” she murmurs. “Let me help you learn.”
A pulse of something warm and overwhelming hits me square in the chest.
I’m jealous.
I’m domestic.
I’m soft.
And not one ounce of it feels wrong.
I grip her hips gently. “I want you to stay here tonight.”
“I was planning on it.”
“And tomorrow night.”
She smiles. “Probably.”
“And most nights.”
Her smile widens. “I like most.”
“But,” I add, “I don’t expect you to move in.”
“I know.”
“But I want you here anyway.”
Her eyes soften. “I’m here, Tony.”
“And if one day,” I say, “you want your own house nearby, or your own space, or whatever you need—I’ll help you build it.”
She kisses me.
Slow.
Soft.
Certain.
When she pulls back, she whispers, “You’re not losing me.”
The breath leaves my lungs.
She lays her head on my shoulder, and I wrap my arms around her, letting her weight settle into mine.
I never thought I’d get another chance at something that feels like a life.
