But here in the firelight, wrapped in his shirt and his blanket and his arms, I know exactly how false that is.
He sees the answer move across my face.
And whatever last bit of restraint he had left goes with it.
Not all at once.
Not in some wild, reckless snap.
In a choice.
His hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck.
Big.
Careful.
Possessive in the earned way.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s what I thought.”
Then he leans down and kisses the tears right off my face.
One at the corner of my eye.
One along my cheek.
Another just beside the trembling edge of my mouth.
My whole body shivers.
Not from cold.
From the unbearable tenderness of it.
From the fact that he is not trying to devour me.
Not trying to turn my heartbreak into a win for himself.
He is kissing me like I’m hurt.
Like I’m precious.
Like he hates the man who made me cry but isn’t going to make me pay for loving him anyway.
That might be the cruelest thing of all.
Because a girl can survive arrogance.
Survive heat.
Survive being wanted.
Being cherished when she doesn’t feel worth cherishing?
That’s the kind of thing that cracks her open.
I whisper his name without meaning to.
