That hits me like a freight train of relief. “I realized that was the only thing holding me back from being able to be your safe place. I had to make it so I was impenetrable.”
Her expression softens. “And you told your mom.”
“She was proud of me.”
She smirks. “Told you.”
I give her a giant squeeze, feeling her ribs flex under my arms. “You’re always right.”
“So what are we saying here? We’re both complicated, kind of dramatic, definitely chaotic, but we still choose each other?”
“I’m saying you make me stronger. And smarter. And honestly, probably way more tolerable to be around.”
“That’s debatable,” she grins.
I pause. “I want to be the man you saw in me before I even saw him myself.”
Her brow raises, and I trace the perfect arch of it with my thumb. “Good,” she says. “Because I love him. A lot.”
My ribcage expands, then explodes into confetti. I can’t stand it anymore. I grip her chin and pull.
It's not some perfect movie-screen kiss. It’s messy and desperate. Lips and tongue and tangling, pulling, loving. My nose bumps hers, and her hand knocks into my hip awkwardly before curling in my shirt. But her mouth moves like it remembers me, and I groan into it, cupping the back of her head like I could keep us here forever. It’s soft. Then it’s sharp. It’s just us, our own messy little symphony of hunger and home. I loveeverything about it—the whimper that leaves her throat and the moan of relief that leaves mine.
When we finally break apart, she rests her forehead against mine.
“You make me more myself,” she murmurs. “Not better or shinier or different. Just more.”
“Same,” I whisper. “You make me want things, too. And how to be proud of that wanting.”
Another pause.
“Safe,” we both murmur at the same time, and I stare down at the love glowing in her eyes and reflecting my own.
She wipes her mouth with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “So. You gonna kiss me again, or was that just an amuse-bouche?”
I laugh, loud and surprised. “You’re still a pain in my ass.”
“A gorgeous pain in your ass,” she corrects, wiggling her eyebrows. “And that’s not a no.”
So I kiss her again. Because of course I do. This time longer. Deeper. No more fear, just fire.
And when we finally pull apart, she tips her head, eyes bright and steady. Steady, safe, secure.
“You ready?” I ask.
“For what?”
“For seconds.”
My Perfect Annie Li grins. “I’m fuckin’ starving, honey.”
Epilogue
Seven Years Later
“This mothertrucker’sabout to eat grass,” Annie mutters to me.
“Honey—” I attempt.
