I’m on my feet before I realize I’ve moved.
I cross the apartment in long strides and yank the door open.
Georgia is standing there, cheeks flushed, eyes bright and furious and determined all at once. She’s holding a teddy bear tucked under one arm and a familiar box of chocolates clutched to her chest.
My stomach drops.
I recognize them instantly.
“So,” she says, stepping past me without waiting for an invitation. “You weren’t even going to tell me about these?”
She sets the bear and chocolates down on my small kitchen table like she owns the place. Like she belongs here. Then she turns slowly, taking in the apartment—the bare gray walls, the minimal furniture, the boxes I never bothered to unpack, shoved into corners like proof I never planned to stay anywhere long.
She returns her gaze to me, steady and unflinching.
“What are you doing here, Georgia?” I ask, barely keeping my voice even.
“It’s Valentine’s Day,” she says. “I’ll be damned if I don’t spend it with my boyfriend.”
The wordboyfriendhits me harder than anything else tonight.
It lands warm and heavy in my chest, followed immediately by something fierce and possessive that curls low in my gut. We never labeled it. Never talked about it. But hearing her say it like it’s a fact undoes me.
She doesn’t give me time to respond.
“You don’t get to decide whether or not I love you,” she continues, her voice gaining heat with each word. “You don’t get to decide whether you’re worthy of my love. That’s not your call. It’s mine to give.”
She steps closer, close enough that I can feel her warmth.
“I think you’re gorgeous. I think you’re everything I’ve ever wanted. Even if I didn’t—which I do, in case you missed that—you make me feel safe. You make me feel wanted. You make me feel loved. That matters more than anything else. Your looks are just window dressing, albeit sexy window dressing.”
She’s breathing hard now, eyes blazing, daring me to argue.
I don’t.
I can’t.
Everything inside me settles all at once, and my lips curve upward into a smile that only seems to irritate her more.
“Why are you smiling?” she demands.
“Because,” I say quietly, “I love you too. And I’m sorry.”
The fire drains out of her all at once, leaving something softer behind. Still strong. Still certain. Just…calmer.
“Do you believe me,” she asks, “when I say I don’t care about your scars?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe me when I say I love you?”
“Yes.”
That seems to finally settle something in her. She exhales, shoulders relaxing.
“Good,” she says.
I swallow, emotion thick in my throat.
