“Yes,” I say again, and my throat tightens.“I love you.I’m in love with you.I’ve been in love with you since I met you and you made me feel like I wasn’t alone in a place that didn’t feel like home.”
Her face shifts, and her chin trembles like she’s fighting tears.
“Okay,” she whispers.“Then why does it feel like everything has to explode every time we are together—the three of us?”
I shrug and take her hand, kissing the tip of her fingers.
“I don’t know how to do this,” she admits, voice thin.“I don’t know how to be someone’s ...everything without breaking.It was easier when the two of you were far away.”
“You don’t have to be everything,” I say.“You just have to be you.We’ll learn the rest.”
She lets out a small, broken sound.“You say ‘we’ like it’s possible.”
“It is,” I say, because I need it to be.“Monty and I have to work on our parts.My resentment, the fear of losing our careers—losing you.”
Her eyes flick to the doorway like she can see Monty through walls.
“He needs to know,” she says softly, “that you love him.”
I nod.“I know.”
“And he needs to know,” she continues, voice firmer, “that you’re not going to abandon him.”
It’s my turn to wince.
“He’s never had a home,” she says quietly.“Not really.He acts like he doesn’t need it, but he does.He just doesn’t trust it.We have to convince him that we’re safe.”
I swallow.“I don’t know how to tell him without him thinking it’s pity.”
Vesper’s mouth tilts.“Yeah, well.Monty has the emotional range of a locked safe.”
I snort.She’s not wrong.
She shifts closer, the pillow between us sliding a little, not fully gone but less strict.
“What if,” she says slowly, “we don’t make it a speech?What if we show him?”
I look at her.“How?”
Her eyes hold mine, steady in a way that makes me want to believe in her even when she’s terrified.
“You stop treating him like an enemy,” she says.“You stop poking him like you want him to react.You stop making everything a contest.”
Ouch.
“And when he gets scared,” she adds, “you don’t punish him for it.You stay.”
I nod once.“Okay.”
Vesper exhales like she’s been holding something in for years.“Okay.”
I squeeze her gently, hand still on her belly.“And you.”
She blinks.“Me?”
“You stop trying to run,” I say, soft but firm.“You stop acting like you have to do this alone just because you’ve always done it alone.”
Her lips part, ready to argue.
