I yanked it off impatiently, ignoring the fact that the timer hadn’t even gone off yet. “Yeah, no,” I muttered against his lips, smearing a little residue on both of us. “Not ideal for kissing.”
He chuckled, his grip sliding to the back of my neck, pressing at the base of my skull. When we finally pulled apart, I kept my forehead against his, still grinning at the ridiculousness of it all.
“You’re kind too,” I said. “You just won’t let yourself think it.”
He let out a breath, part laugh, part disbelief. “I’m not.”
“Youare. You stood outside every evening, in public, where anyone could see you, taking pictures of the sky for me because you knew how much I loved them, and how rarely I got to see them.” I swallowed hard. “That’s kindness.”
His eyes softened, something unreadable flickering through them—regret, maybe, or wonder, or both. “I didn’t do it out of kindness. I did it because every time I saw them, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I barely noticed the damn things before I met you, and then, I don’t know...you made everything in my life brighter.”
“That’s worse,” I teased, and he laughed under his breath before kissing me again—vigorously this time.
“You don’t know what you do to me, Lillian,” he whispered. “Meeting you felt like God poured sunshine into a person and called ityou. I lived my entire life thinking the world was gray, and then you showed up—like you were created just for me, like color was never meant to exist without you.”
I wanted to tell him that my sunshine had never felt like sunshine. That it felt more like an annoying storm cloud—blustering, untamed, rolling in uninvited. That people learned to carry umbrellas around me, bracing themselves, waiting me out. That I’d grown up believing I was something best enjoyed in limited quantities, tolerated briefly, then awkwardly moved away from once the novelty wore off.
I wanted to tell him that I’d spent years dimming myself, apologizing mid-sentence, sanding down my edges before anyone else could complain about them. That if I was weather, I’d always been warned I was the kind that ruined plans.
But his gaze was boring into mine like none of that was true. Like I wasn’t something to endure. Like I was something that made the world warmer just by existing.
And laying there, locked in that look, I realized how terrifying it was to be seen that way, how dangerous it felt to want to believe him, to wonder if I ever could.
He brushed his fingers along my jaw, outlining the curve of my right cheek. “Is this where she hit you?”
I shook my head, turning my face just enough for the other side to catch the light. “This one.”
His touch followed, caressing the skin like he could wipe away the hurt. Then his lips replaced it—warm, soft, heartbreakingly gentle. “Anywhere else?” he murmured.
“No. That was the only time.”
But the look in his eyes said he knew better—that the bruises she’d left had nothing to do with skin.
“I know this won’t make up for everything you went through,” he whispered, voice thick, trembling just enough to shatter me. “But I am...so sorry. I amso, so sorry, Lillian. If I could somehow erase those memories, those moments when you ever felt—even for a second—that you weren’twantedon this earth, that you weren’tworthyof being loved, of being cherished...I swear, I would do it in a heartbeat.”
Hot tears sprang to my eyes. I’d spent years waving off the things I’d gone through, smoothing over the past, shrinking it down into something manageable, something easier to carry, like the way my mother treated me was nothing.It could’ve been worse,I always told myself,don’t be so dramatic. But it wasn’t nothing. It wassomething. It was a lot of painful somethings.
And yet, his words, his acknowledgment, his apology for my mother...they reached that part of me I’d tucked away long ago. The little girl I thought I’d buried stirred, blinking in the warmth of being seen, being heard, being loved. I felt her there, quivering but alive, lifting her head at the sound of someone finally saying what she’d needed to hear all along. That it mattered. Thatshemattered.
“Your mother,” he said, a sardonic venom to his tone, “is, respectfully, a terrible woman. But she did one thing right. She gave meyou. And I...I can’t ever go back to a life without knowing what it’s like to have you.” He stared into me like I was the only thing worth seeing, his liquid caramel eyes swimming with devotion. “She may not have wanted you, but I do. I’llalwayswant you. I’ll want you enough to make up for all the moments she let slip away.”
His mouth found mine again. Each kiss felt like it was trying to make a point, and I wasn’t sure which of us was winning. His lips moved to my ear. “Are you still hungry?”
I was still catching my breath. “No,” I managed. “Are you?”
“Starving,” he replied. “Not for food, though.”
A surprised laugh escaped me. “You’re incorrigible.”
“Yes,” he said, his tone dipping low, amusement threading through it. “But only when it comes to you. I don’t know how I’m going to focus on my lectures tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“Because all I’m going to be thinking of isthis.” He kissed my forehead. “And this.” A kiss to my nose. “And this.” His lips skimmed over my cheeks. “Mm, and especially this.” The last kiss landed on my mouth, making my brain melt into a puddle of useless, love-drunk goo. “What about you? Are you going to be able to focus at work?”
“Yes,” I lied. “I’m not as affected by you as you are by me.”
His smirk curved, slow and disbelieving. “Is that so?”
