“Because I’m not entitled to your forgiveness,” I answer immediately. “And I’m not here to negotiate it.”
Another pause.
“I’m just here to tell you I understand what I did wrong.” My gaze shifts to Mr. Pickles, who appears between Ivy’s feet. He sits down and his tail thrashes onceas he stares at me. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not. But it’s obvious that even the cat knows how badly I fucked up.
I lift my gaze back to hers.
“And if you never want to sleep in my room again,” I add softly, “I’ll live with that. I just needed you to know that I see what I did. Fully. No excuses.”
She shifts her weight in the doorway. “You don’t get points for self-awareness,” she says. “You get points for change.”
“That’s something.”
Her green eyes meet mine. Sharp. Searching. Exhausted.
Mr. Pickles peers at me like he’s still evaluating whether I’m allowed back into society.
“I don’t need a guard dog,” she says quietly.
“I know,” I reply. “You need a partner.”
Her jaw tightens. “I need you to ask,” she says. “Before you step in. Before you decide. Before you act like the world is something I can’t survive.”
I nod once. Firmly. “I will.”
She studies me for a long moment.
Then, finally, she steps closer.
It’s not an invitation. Not forgiveness. But a beginning.
“Get up,” she says.
I rise slowly, careful not to crowd her.
“For the record,” she adds, taking another step closer, “next time you feel the urge to declare lifelong protection vows in public…”
“Yes?”
Her lips curve just slightly.
“…try using your words first.”
I let out the breath I’ve been holding all morning. “Yes, ma’am.”
Mr. Pickles hisses at me on principle.
Fair.
“You can come inside.”
I take that as a small victory.
50
IVY
Sebastian stands just inside the threshold of the guest room like he’s afraid the floor might collapse if he moves too fast. Mr. Pickles drapes himself across my feet, a solid, judgmental presence, his tail flicking once in warning.
