For his ego.
Dylan Degan, survivor of gunfire, recovering outlaw, future construction business owner, man who had faced down pain, blood loss, and Edge’s silent wrath, was absolutely terrible at carnival games.
Terrible.
He missed the milk bottles three times.
The teenager running the booth looked personally embarrassed for him.
Dylan stared at the remaining bottles like they had betrayed a peace treaty.
“In my defense,” he said, “I usually aim at people trying to kill me.”
I folded my arms. “Romantic.”
“That came out wrong.”
“Did it?”
“Mostly.”
I laughed so hard the booth worker smiled.
Dylan bought more tickets.
“Dylan.”
“What?”
“You are not about to get into a dominance battle with weighted milk bottles.”
“They’re not weighted.”
“They are absolutely weighted.”
“That’s quitter talk.”
“That’s nurse talk. Your abdomen is going to hate you tomorrow.”
“My abdomen already hates me.”
“Your surgeon would hate this.”
“My surgeon isn’t here.”
“No, but I am.”
His eyes shifted to me.
The air warmed again.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “You are.”
The laughter softened between us.
He stopped throwing.
Not because he had won.
