“Say what?”
“That you want me.”
My pulse slams. “You know I want you.”
“Do I?” she challenges.
I step closer. “You feel it every time I look at you.”
“That’s not the same as hearing it.”
The space between us evaporates.
“You want words?” I ask quietly.
“Yes.” Her chin lifts.
“Because I deserve them.”
God. She’s right.
“You think I haven’t been fighting this?” I ask.
“I don’t want to be fought.”
I reach out, grip the edge of the suitcase, push it closed.
She inhales sharply. “Don’t.”
“I’m not done.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“No,” I agree. “But I get to speak before you walk out.”
She stills. “Then speak.”
My chest feels raw.
“You’re not my almost,” I say.
“Then what am I?”
I step closer until her back nearly hits the dresser.
“You’re the woman I think about when I wake up,” I say. “The one I watch in my kitchen like she belongs there.”
Her breath catches.
“You’re the reason this house doesn’t feel like a museum anymore.”
Her hands press lightly to my chest—not pushing.
“You’re the one my daughter laughs with in a way she hasn’t in years.”
Her fingers curl slightly in my shirt.
“And you’re the one I want in my bed every night.”
