She rolls her eyes. “Fine. Ruin.”
My face drops instantly and I pout. Full fucking pout. Lower lip and all.
“Wow.” She deadpans. “There’s no winning with you.”
I shrug, pulling her back into me, my tone turning quieter. More honest. “I don’t mind you calling me that,” I murmur. “Even if… even if you choose to leave me.” The words scrape on the way out. “I’ll just love you regardless, baby.”
She leans back slightly, studying my face. Not searching for lies. Not doubting. Just weighing it. “You actually love me?” she asks softly.
I don’t hesitate. “I love you.”
She swallows, her throat working like the words are heavier than she expected. “I… don’t love you,” she admits carefully. “But I don’t hate you either.”
It’s not a knife. It should be—but it isn’t. Because somehow, that feels like everything.
“That’s good,” I breathe out, my voice rough. And I mean it. Because she’s still here.
She didn’t run.
She didn’t push me away.
She didn’t choosenot me.
My hand slides to the back of her neck, fingers threading gently into her hair. I hesitate—for a second.
Giving her time.
Giving her space to pull back.
And when she doesn’t, I lean in. Slow at first. Careful.
Her breath catches before our lips meet.
Everything else just fades.
She melts into it.
Soft. Warm. Real.
Her fingers curl into my cut, holding on just as tight as I am.
And I kiss her like I’ve been starving for it. Like I need it to fucking breathe.
When we finally pull apart, our foreheads rest together, breaths uneven.
I huff out a quiet laugh, my thumb brushing over her cheek again. “Yeah,” I murmur, still a little dazed. “You definitely don’t hate me.”
Her lips twitch.
For the first time since all this shit started, I let myself hope. Not because I deserve her. Or that even she believes she could look past my mistakes.
But that maybe, just maybe…
She’s starting to like me a little.
FORTY-SIX
Charlotte
