She melts into the hug.
“Thank you,” she says softly.
And as everyone keeps talking, I watch her.
Not the dress. Not the headlines.
Her.
Because fame doesn’t knock politely.
And the moment the world realizes what we already know…that Abby Turner creates magic with her hands…it’s going to come looking for her.
Whether we’re ready or not.
Abby walks over to me and smiles up at me.
Not the polite smile. Not the one she hides behind when she’s tired or hurting.
This one is real.
Pure joy.
I commit every second of it to memory.
“People like the dress,” she says quietly, fingers laced together in front of her like she’s trying to hold the moment in place.
“They do,” I tell her, smiling back.
It’s been three months since Abby moved back into the compound. Three months of me inching my way back toward her instead of charging ahead like an idiot. Three months of watching the light slowly return to her eyes, little by little.
She still keeps me at arm’s length.
And I don’t blame her.
If the ache in my chest these past three months…of loving her openly, of choosing her every day while she keeps her shields locked tight…is even a fraction of what she endured for years, then I wouldn’t blame her if she never lets those walls come down again.
I’d hate it.
But I’d understand.
“It’s very fluffy,” I say seriously. “And extremely sparkly.”
She laughs, the sound warm and unguarded, and it hits me straight in the chest.
“Want to tell me all about how you made it?”
I don’t actually care how she made it. But if it takes her hours to explain every stitch and crystal, I’ll sit right here and listen with a notebook and pen ready to take notes.
“You have no interest in fashion,” she says, amused.
“Not even the tiniest bit,” I admit. “But I’ve got a hell of a lot of interest in the designer.”
Her smile softens.
“Abigail,” Spike says, pulling her from our moment.
I can’t kill my president…my friend. No matter how tempting it is at the moment.
