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“You're kind and compassionate. Selfless to a fault. You're loyal, generous.”
Something inside my chest cracks. Each word, each compliment, each assessment he has of me cuts me a little bit further, until finally, my chest is flayed open. My heart is frantically beating against my ribs. I can do nothing but sit there and take it.
He places the loofah on the bench next to him, and even though he’s sitting down, our eyeline is nearly the same. My head is only just tilted down toward him. He smooths both of his hands over my hips, his fingers spread wide to touch every inch of skin possible. His hands take their sweet time sliding ever so slowly up my ribcage to settle underneath my breasts.
“But do you know what I think really sets you apart?”
I bite my lip, waiting for his response. Instinctively knowing that the next words that come out of his mouth are going to burrow inside of me and take root. And Dante is going to water them—often.
“The most beautiful thing about you, Madison Murphy Walsh, is that you have absolutely no idea how perfect you are.”
Denial is on the tip of my tongue. I'm far from perfect—no one is perfect. A fissure of fear worms its way into one of those many cracks Dante created, living up to an expectation of perfection is relationship suicide.
Dante, who has never been oblivious to anything about me, gently squeezes his hands around my ribs. “Stop. Whatever you're thinking right now, stop it. You don't see yourself the way I see you, the way others see you. And I'm going to tell you right now, Maddie, you're fucking perfect for me. For us. And I will never let you go.”
