I laughed. “No, you don’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
His expression softened.
I looked away. “That’s the weird part.”
“What is?”
“I trust you.” The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Rome went still.
The rain tapped harder against the windows, and I stared at the buttons on his Henley instead of his face, because admitting things out loud was terrifying.
“You shouldn’t say things you don’t mean,” he said quietly.
I looked up. “I mean it.”
He held my gaze for a long moment like he was making sure. Like he understood exactly how hard those words were for me. Then he nodded once. “I know.”
And for some reason, that almost made me cry. I laughed instead, because crying in Rome’s kitchen would’ve been embarrassing.
He smiled. “You laugh when you’re nervous.”
“I do not.”
“You do.”
“I hate that you notice things.”
“I notice everything about you.”
The words hit me square in the chest and my breath caught.
Rome stepped closer. His hands settled at my waist and his eyes were on me.
Not my shirt. Not my body. Me. That still felt impossible sometimes.
“You know what I see?” he asked.
I smiled weakly. “Here we go.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
His hands squeezed gently. “I see a woman who got knocked down and built something anyway.”
I blinked.
“I see somebody who makes everybody around her smile.”
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
“I see somebody brave enough to start over.”
