"No. Let me finish." He pulls back enough to cup my face in both hands, forcing me to meet his eyes. "We've been through hell these past weeks. Mila has thrown everything she has at us—the lies, the harassment, the public humiliation. And you're still standing. You're still fighting. You went into that coffee shop and took her apart piece by piece."
I blink through my tears. "That was different?—"
"It wasn't different. It was you. The real you. Not the version you see when you look in the mirror." His thumbs wipe at my wet cheeks. "You see flaws. I see the woman who walked into my birthday party in that blue shirt and made every other girl disappear."
A hiccup escapes me, half-sob, half-laugh. "That was eighteen years ago."
"And I'd fall in love with you all over again today." His forehead presses against mine. “I want a family with you. I wanteverythingwith you. And if you never believe another word I say, believe that."
I want to argue. I want to list every reason he's wrong, every failureand disappointment. But his eyes are so sincere, so desperate for me to understand, that the fight drains out of me.
"Okay," I whisper.
"Okay?"
"I'm trying." I take a shaky breath. "To believe you. To believe I'm enough. It's... it's hard, Devon. It's been hard my whole life."
"I know." He kisses my forehead. "And I'll keep reminding you. Every day. Until you don't need me to anymore."
We stand there in our kitchen, wrapped around each other. My body aches from exhaustion. My eyes burn from crying. But underneath all of it, something eases in my stomach.
"Whatever comes next," I say against his chest, “we’ll deal with it.”
Devon's arms tighten around me.
"Always."
Outside, the neighbor's kids are shrieking with laughter, their voices drifting through the open window. Normal sounds from a normal world—one that feels very far away right now.
But we're building our own world. Here, in this kitchen, with a restraining order on the table.
It's not the life I imagined at eighteen.
But it's ours.
And I'm not letting go.
Chapter Thirty-Two
DEVON
The gym is packed for a Thursday afternoon.
I'm spotting a customer on the bench press when I feel it—that prickle at the back of my neck that tells me something's wrong. It's the same instinct that made me look up at the conference in New York, the same one that had me checking over my shoulder for weeks.
I scan the weight floor, but there isn’t anything unusual. Clients are sweating through their sets. The rhythmic clang of weights. The hum of treadmills from the cardio section.
“Are you alright?” the client asks from beneath the bar.
"Yeah. Yeah, sorry." I refocus, guiding him through his last rep.
But the feeling doesn't leave.
It's been three days since the coffee shop, since I told Mila to stop whatever this is. Officer Gray called yesterday to say they'd done a welfare check—Mila was "cooperative but emotional." Whatever that means.
The restraining order is active. She's supposed to stay a hundred feet away from both of us. Her yoga contract at the gym ended after the review—effectiveimmediately.
It should be over.
