"Tell me what?"
Her jaw tightens. She looks away. "That I don't hate you."
That's not what you were going to say.
But I don't push. I don't have the right.
"Stay," I say instead. The word comes out raw. Desperate. Everything I swore I'd never be. "Please."
Kristen looks at me. At the tubes and wires. At the stuffed rabbit tucked against my arm like a child's comfort object.
"Lily's going to want proof you're using Sir Floppington correctly," she says. Her voice is steadier now. Almost teasing. "She has very specific standards."
Something unknots in my chest. Not completely. But enough.
"I'll practice."
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Kristen
Nico stares at me.
Just... stares.
I know he has things to say. I can see them building behind his eyes, stacking up like ammunition he's not ready to fire. But he keeps them locked down.
And honestly? It feels wrong.
Because here's the thing about Nico Sartori that I've learned over these past weeks: he's been more expressive than me from the very beginning. Not with flowery speeches or grand declarations—that's not him. But in the way he watches. The way he acts.
He's been showing me how he feels this whole time.
And I've been the one holding back. Building walls. Protecting myself.
He's dangerous in a thousand different ways yes. But he's never once used that danger against me. Every terrifying thing about him has been pointed outward, forming a shield between me and the world.
I move closer to the bed. My legs feel shaky, unreliable, but I make them work anyway. The chair scrapes against the floor as I pull it right up to his side.
Nico's eyes track my movement. He doesn't say anything. Just watches.
Okay, Thomas. Time to stop being a coward.
"I love you."
The words come out rough, scraped raw from somewhere deep in my chest. Not pretty. Not romantic. Just true.
Nico blinks. Once. Twice.
"I must have taken the bullet earlier than I thought," he says. His voice is hoarse, wrecked from surgery and intubation. "Because I'm clearly dead or hallucinating."
I huff out a breath that's half laugh, half sob. "You're such an asshole."
"Yeah." He doesn't deny it. "Come here."
I'm already close, but I lean in closer anyway, careful not to jostle the IV line or the monitors beeping steadily beside him. His hand finds mine and his fingers thread through mine with surprising strength for a man who almost died two days ago.
"Kristen." My name sounds different when he says it. Heavier. Like it means something. "I don't—" He stops. Starts again. "I'm not good at this."
