“I’m choosing you knowing it will work out,” I correct. “I don’t accept failure.”
His laugh rumbles through his chest. “There’s my perfectionist.”
“Don’t mock.”
“Never. I adore your perfectionism. It’s one of your most attractive qualities.”
“Most people find it exhausting.”
“Most people are fools.” He tips my chin up to meet his eyes. “Your standards aren’t exhausting—they’re aspirational. You expect the best from yourself because you know you’re capable of the best. And you hold others to high standards because you believe they’re capable too. That’s not perfectionism. That’s faith.”
The observation settles over me like a blanket. I’ve spent so long seeing my need for control as a flaw that I never considered it might be a strength when viewed from a different angle.
“How do you do that?” I ask.
“Do what?”
“See me so clearly.”
“Practice.” His smile is soft. “Centuries of watching humans lie to themselves and each other. You learn to spot the truth hiding underneath.” A pause. “Also, I’m desperately in love with you. That tends to sharpen the perception.”
“There you go with that word again.”
“Love? Get used to it. I plan to say it frequently.” He steals another kiss. “Love, love, love. Isadora Solis, I love you.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously in love. Yes.”
I bury my face in his neck to hide my smile, but he feels it anyway. His arms tighten around me, and for a moment, the world outside this bedroom fades to nothing.
There’s only this. Only us. Complete in a way neither of us expected.
Twenty-five minutes later, I’m rushing through the world’s fastest shower while Mal lounges unhelpfully on my bed, still gloriously naked and making no effort to leave.
“You could at least pretend to be supportive,” I call through the bathroom door.
“I am supportive. I’m supporting your decision to attend class by not actively preventing it.”
“How noble.”
“I thought so.”
I emerge wrapped in a towel, hair dripping, and find him watching me with an expression that makes my stomach flip.
“Don’t,” I warn.
“Don’t what?”
“Look at me like that. I’ll never make it to class.”
“That is the objective.”
“Mal.”
“Fine.” He rises with exaggerated reluctance, stretching in a way that draws my attention to muscles I definitely shouldn’t be noticing right now. “I’ll behave. For exactly as long as it takes you to get dressed. After that, all bets are off.”
I throw my wet towel at his head and dive for my closet.
