He blinks. “Okay?”
“Okay,” I repeat, taking his hand and placing it back over my sternum where he put it earlier. “I accept.”
The sound he makes is half laugh, half groan. He bows his head until his forehead rests against mine.
“This isn’t how it works, Little Grim,” he murmurs. “You’re supposed to say something back. At least let me know where I stand.”
My throat tightens.
He’s right. I should.
My palms start to sweat.
“I think it goes without saying,” I whisper.
He pulls back, cups my face between both hands.
“Believe me,” he says, low and rough, “it doesn’t.”
I kiss him.
It’s not a neat kiss. His hand tangles in my hair, the other digs into my ribs where the belt he tied still bites. I catch his lower lip between my teeth until he groans.
“How about that?” I whisper.
He chuckles, breath ghosting against my mouth.
“Come on, Skye,” he murmurs. “Don’t be a little coward. Not now, alright?”
I suck in a breath.
Fuck.
Both my heart and my body squeeze at once.
“I love you too,” I blurt out. It comes out like I’m choking for air, so I say it again. “I love you too.”
Everything in him stills except his eyes. Mischief blows out like a candle in a draft, then flickers back, smaller, truer, different.
“Oh,” he says softly. “Oh, Little Grim.”
He leans in and kisses me again, slower this time. The tequila on his tongue has turned into something warm. When he finally pulls back, he looks at me the way men in Renaissance paintings look at the ones they love. Like yearning could outlast time itself.
“Say it again,” he whispers.
“Greedy,” I accuse, but my mouth is already smiling like it forgot how not to. “I love you.”
“Fuck,” he breathes. “Is there anything you want right now? Just say it. I’ll give you the fucking moon.”
“Mhm, because that’s a completely reasonable thing to promise.”
“I don’t give a shit if it’s reasonable,” he says. “Either I give you what you want or I die trying.”
I pause, considering. The answer’s already waiting on my tongue.
“How about that specialty of yours?” I say.
He raises a brow, amused.
