"Would he want me to be happy with you?"
The question cuts deep. Because I've wondered the same thing. Lying awake at night in my room at the inn, I've wondered what my father would say if he could see us now.
"I think," I say carefully, "that my father would want me to be with someone who would protect me with his life. Someone who understands loss and grief and what it means to keep going anyway. Someone who looks at me like I'm the most precious thing in the world."
Max's throat works as he swallows.
"I do," he says hoarsely. "You are."
I rise on my toes and press my lips to his. Soft. Sweet. A promise more than a kiss.
"Then stop questioning it. Stop looking for reasons this is wrong." I cup his face in my hands. "Just let yourself have this. Have me."
Something shifts in his expression. The last wall crumbling.
He kisses me back with a tenderness that makes my eyes sting.
"Come on," he says when we finally break apart. "Coffee's getting cold."
We eat breakfast at his small table, my feet in his lap, his thumb tracing circles on my ankle. The muffins are incredible. Blueberry and lemon, still warm from Maggie's oven. I devour three while Max watches with an amused expression.
"What?" I demand around a mouthful.
"Nothing. I like watching you eat."
"That's weird."
"Probably." He shrugs. "I like a lot of weird things about you."
"Like what?"
He considers the question while I sip my coffee.
"The way you talk with your hands when you're excited. The way you hum under your breath when you think no one's listening. The way you stood up to me that first night, even though you were scared."
"I wasn't scared."
"Yes you were." His eyes soften. "But you did it anyway. That's braver than not being scared at all."
I set down my cup and study the man across from me. This complicated, wounded, beautiful man who's somehow become the center of my world in less than a week.
"Tell me about my father," I say softly.
He goes still.
"Tell me what he was like when you knew him. Tell me the stories I never got to hear."
For a long moment, he doesn't speak. I watch the battle play out across his face. The pain of remembering warring with the need to honor the man we both loved.
Then he takes a breath.
"Marcus was the best man I ever knew."
The words open a floodgate. He tells me about BUD/S, about Hell Week, about the night they almost rang the bell together and talked each other out of it. He tells me about deployments and missions and quiet moments between the chaos. About the way Marcus would talk about me and my mother for hours, showing everyone photos, bragging about my report cards and my dance recitals.
"He was so proud of you," Max says, his voice rough. "Everything you did, every milestone, he'd tell anyone who would listen. 'My little girl got straight A's again.' 'My little girl made the honor roll.' You were his whole world, Claire."
Tears stream down my face. I don't bother wiping them away.
