“I waited years to put that on your hand. I’m not letting a sweater take you out.”
My laugh broke into something warmer.
He kissed the ring first.
Then my knuckle.
Then the inside of my wrist where the mother-of-pearl cuff rested.
Every kiss felt like him honoring a different piece of me. The girl from the fire. The woman from the hospital. The daughter with Mandy’s diamonds and Edge’s eyes watching from the porch. The nurse. The best friend Lily had cried over losing day-to-day. The woman standing in Cal’s guest room with snow outside and forever on her hand.
“Beautiful,” he whispered against my skin.
I touched his jaw. “No ghosts tonight.”
His eyes lifted to mine.
“No ghosts.”
“No guilt.”
“No guilt.”
“No almost.”
His hands tightened at my waist.
“No almost,” he said.
Then his mouth found mine again.
We undressed slowly, not because we were uncertain, but because there was no need to steal from time anymore. His sweater. My skirt. His shirt. My boots. His boots. Layers fell onto the braided rug beside the bed until there was nothing left between us but skin, lamplight, and the old scars we no longer had to hide.
His bullet scar had faded over the year, but I still touched it every time like proof.
He closed his eyes when my fingers found it.
“Does it hurt?” I whispered.
“Not tonight.”
“Truth.”
His eyes opened. “Ache sometimes. Not tonight.”
I bent and kissed the scar.
His breath caught.
I loved that I could still do that to him. That after everything, after months of learning each other in ordinary rooms and stolen mornings, I could still make Dylan Degan look shaken with one soft touch.
His hand slid into my hair.
Slow.
Reverent.
“I used to dream about this,” he said.
