The fight seemed to drain out of him. Whether from exhaustion or because he knew she was right, Vivi couldn’t tell.
“You should sleep,” she said, softer now. “You look like you’re about to fall over.”
“I am,” he admitted, but made no move to get up from the couch. Instead, he reached for her, tugging her closer until she was pressed against his good side. His arm curled around her waist, warm and solid. “I’ve been thinking.”
“Dangerous.” She rested her head on his shoulder, breathing in the familiar dark masculine scent of him.
“I’m serious.” His fingers traced idle patterns against her hip. “This thing we’re doing. Us.”
Vivi’s heart skipped. They’d been dancing around defining what they were for months now. First because of their complicated history, then because of Sabin, then because of Raines. There had always been something more pressing, something that gave them both the excuse to avoid putting words to what was happening between them.
“What about us?”
“You spend more nights here than at your own place.”
“I know.”
“Half your clothes are in my closet.”
“Not half.” Not even close, but she didn’t want to scare him.
“You reorganized my kitchen.”
“Because your system made no sense.” She’d spent an entire Sunday moving his dishes to more logical locations, color-coding his spice rack, and creating a coffee station that didn’t require three separate trips across the kitchen just to make a cup.
He smiled against her hair. “I’m just saying, it feels like you live here.”
“I guess I kind of do.” The realization wasn’t as scary as she’d expected it to be. In fact, it felt right. Natural. Like they’d been moving in this direction all along, even when they were fighting it.
“So maybe we should stop pretending you don’t.”
She lifted her head to look at him. His blue eyes were serious, intent despite the exhaustion lining his face. “Are you asking me to move in with you?”
“I’m saying you already have.” He brushed a strand of hair from her face. “I’m just catching up to reality.”
She considered his words. He wasn’t wrong. What had started as crashing at his place after long days at WSW during Sabin’s recovery had evolved into something much more permanent without either of them acknowledging it.
“What if it doesn’t work?” The question slipped out before she could stop it—the fear she’d been carrying since Istanbul, since before that even. That whatever they built together would crumble again, leaving her more broken than before.
“What if it does?” He held her gaze. “Viv, I’m not the same man who hurt you before. And you’re not the same woman who walked away. We’ve both changed.”
“You still jump in front of bullets,” she pointed out.
“And you still pick locks you have no business picking.”
“Not... all the time anymore.”
He grinned and shifted to face her more fully, wincing slightly as his shoulder protested. “I’m tired of pretending Idon’t want you here permanently. That I’m not counting the days until I can finally say what you wouldn’t let me say in that van.”
The van. When he was bleeding out. When she’d cut him off because she couldn’t bear to hear those words for the first time while he was dying.
“You can’t say it now either,” she whispered.
His face fell. “Viv?—”
“Because I need to say it first.” She moved closer, taking his face between her hands. “After what you’ve done for my family. For Sabin. For me. I need to be the one who says it.”
She brushed her thumbs across his cheekbones, studying the familiar planes of his face—the scar above his eyebrow, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the stubble darkening his jaw.
