“And today, when he said those things… for a second, I felt like that girl again. The one who isn’t enough. The one who’s wrong.”
I stare at her, stunned.
Wrong? Her?
She’s a wildfire, a hurricane, the most exhilarating thing to happen to me in twenty-seven years.
“You’re not wrong,” I say, voice low and steady. “You’re perfect.”
She gives a bitter, shaky laugh. “I’m not. I’m a mess, Becker. You know that. I’m neurotic, controlling, I burn figs, and—”
“And you’re funny,” I cut in. “You’re scary smart. You’re loyal. You’re the only person alive who can actually keep up with me.”
I cup her face in both hands, forcing her to see what I see.
“He wanted a small woman because he’s a small man, Sloane. He wanted someone he could put on a shelf.
You? You’re not shelf material. You’re made to take up the whole damn room.”
My thumbs sweep over her cheeks.
“Who cares if you can roast a chicken? I care about the way you yell at me when I’m being an idiot. The way you laugh wheneverything’s chaos. The way you hold everyone else together. You are incredible. Exactly like this.”
Her lips tremble.
“Really?” she whispers.
“Really.”
She closes her eyes and rests her forehead against mine.
“I’m scared, Cohen,” she admits—soft, like it’s a secret.
My heart stutters.
“Of what?”
Please sayme. Please saythis. Please sayus.
She hesitates. I feel her tense.
“Of… messing everything up.”
There’s more.
I can feel it.
Something about Joe, or us, or how this all started.
But I don’t push.
Not tonight.
The jealousy still burns—burns knowing that idiot once had the power to dim her like this—but I shove it down again.
“I’m here, Sloane,” I murmur, kissing her forehead. “And I’m not letting you ruin anything. We’re a team, remember? A hundred points. First place.”
She gives me a tiny smile—weak but real.
