Even when he was young.
Even when he hurt me.
He always looked at me like being made of force was the point.
My voice comes out quieter than I intend.
“My father’s going to hate this.”
His expression doesn’t flicker.
Not even a little.
Instead he slides his hand higher, cups the side of my neck, and says, “Baby, every man in your life can hate me if he wants.”
I stare at him.
His gaze holds mine, dark and steady.
“None of that scares me,” he says. “Not when I have the best intentions in mind for you.”
I think my soul leaves my body for a second.
There is simply no recovering from a line like that spoken in that voice by that man while he’s standing in a hotel suite overlooking the Atlantic with my do-over dress in his hand.
I laugh once, helplessly, because crying would be too dramatic even for me.
“You can’t just say things like that.”
His mouth lifts.
“I already did.”
Then, because apparently I haven’t suffered enough, he kisses my forehead once and disappears into the bathroom with his own garment bag, leaving me alone with the dress, the ocean, and the wildly inconvenient fact that I may actually be in love.
Not crush.
Not obsession.
Not lust so intense it masquerades as destiny.
Love.
The kind that waits.
The kind that remembers.
The kind that studies your wounds like they matter.
The silk skims my body like it was cut with me in mind. It hugs my waist and glides over my hips without trying to make me smaller. The back leaves a clean sweep of skin exposed, the straps delicate over my shoulders. The sandals buckle neatly around my ankles. My hair takes ten extra minutes because I keep having to stop and stare at myself like I’m seeing not just adress, but the girl I might have been if that first night had gone differently.
Only better.
Stronger.
Sharper.
Still standing.
