"I know."
"I've never—" Another stop. His jaw clenches, and I watch him fight with himself, watch him struggle to drag words out of some locked vault inside his chest. "I've spent thirty years watching love destroy people. Watching men in this life lose everything because they let someone matter. I swore I'd never be that stupid."
His thumb traces circles on my palm. Such a small touch. Such a devastating admission.
"And then you appeared." His voice drops lower. "And I couldn't stop watching you. Couldn't stop thinking about you. Couldn't stop wanting?—"
He breaks off, and I see the frustration in the tight line of his mouth. Words aren't his weapon. Actions are. But he's trying anyway, bleeding them out for me.
"I love you." He says it like a confession. Like a crime he's admitting to. "I love you so badly it's made me stupid. Reckless. I walked into that warehouse alone because I didn't care anymore if?—"
"Don't." My voice cracks. "Don't you dare finish that sentence."
His eyes meet mine. Dark. Intense. Unapologetic.
Oh, God.
I lean forward and kiss him.
His lips are dryl0, but when his good hand comes up to cup the back of my head, holding me there, I feel something slot into place inside my chest.
Like coming home to a place I didn't know existed.
When we finally separate, both breathing harder than we should be, Nico's gaze flicks to somewhere over my shoulder.
"The rabbit is watching."
I burst out laughing. Sir Floppington sits propped against the bedrail where I left him, his button eyes fixed on us with what I can only describe as judgmental curiosity.
"I missed you," I whisper. "So much. These past days?—"
"How much?"
I blink at him. "What?"
"How much did you miss me?" His thumb traces my cheekbone. "Specifically."
"Are you seriously asking me to quantify my emotional suffering right now?"
"Yes."
"Fine." I settle more comfortably in my chair, keeping his hand in mine. "I missed you enough that I couldn't sleep. Enough that I kept reaching for my phone to text you before remembering I'd told you I hated you. Enough that Lily asked why I kept crying and I had to blame allergies."
Nico's expression doesn't change, but his grip on my hand tightens.
"Enough that when Vittoria called and said you'd been shot, I couldn't breathe," I continue, quieter now. "Enough that the cab ride here felt like it lasted years. Enough that sitting in that waiting room not knowing if you'd survive made me realize I'd rather have you making decisions I hate than not have you at all."
Nico keeps staring at me.
"You could do better," he says.
I want to hit him.
I really, genuinely want to smack him across his stupidly handsome face. But I'm a good person, and he just had surgery, and there are probably nurses nearby who would frown upon me assaulting their patient.
He must see it in my expression because he laughs. The sound is rough, cut short by what I assume is pain from his chest wound, but it's real. Genuine.
"Does this mean you're coming home with me?"
