“He gave me the one thing he could never have for himself,” Ian says quietly. “Freedom. That's who he is. He gives people the thing he can't keep. Builds houses he can't live in. Protects people he can't hold.” He looks at me. “You think a man like that builds you a life in Paris and then just doesn't show up?”
I'm crying properly now. I gave up pretending otherwise two glasses ago. “Then why hasn't he come? Why am I sitting on this balcony without him?”
Ian sits up straight, reaches over and takes my hand, threading his fingers through mine and squeezing once, firm and sure, like punctuation. “Because the pieces aren't in place yet. And because coming to you before they are would put a target on you that no amount of planning could take off.” His voice is steady. Patient. “He's protecting you the only way he knows how. By staying away right now. But I swear to God it won’t be forever.”
“I hate it.”
“I know.” He squeezes my hand again, and I let myself absorb the touch.
“I hate that he's out there doing God knows what and I'm here drinking wine and staring at a fucking Tower.” I press the heels of my hands against my eyes. “I need to know he's coming back to me. Because if he's not?—”
“Then what, Crazy, huh? You move on?”
I drop my hands. “I don't know. I don't know what comes after him.”
“There is no after him for you. I’m no expert on love or soulmates and all that crap. But I watched him look at you like you were the first real thing he'd seen in his entire adult life. And you? You love being that for someone. Makes you insufferable.” His mouth tugs up, just barely. “Also makes you you.”
A sob breaks out of me. Loud and graceless and past caring. I fold forward and press my face into my hands. Ian doesn't say anything. He just slides in behind me, hands gentle on my arms, guiding me back until I'm leaning against his chest, his legs bracketing mine. Something in me gives. Three months of it, all at once.
He doesn't shush me. Doesn't say it's okay. His arms stay around me while I cry in a way I haven't in weeks—huge, ugly, chest-wracking sobs that shake through both of us. The kind of crying that empties you out. Somewhere in the middle of it his fingers find their way into my hair. Just resting there, warm and still and comforting.
By the time I stop, my face is wet and my head hurts and I've folded myself so deep into his arms it takes a minute to remember how to move.
“You’re gonna be okay, Crazy.”
“One day you're going to be sick of me crying on your shoulder,” I say, voice wrecked.
“Hasn't happened yet.”
My nose is stuffy from crying, and my lips part to take a breath. “I'm scared, Ian.”
“Of what?”
“That he won't come back.” I nestle deeper into him. It’s not something I decide to do, and more of a reaction to the warmth of him wrapping around me. “And that I’ll wake up one morning and you’re gone, too.”
His lips press to the top of my head. Soft. Unhurried. And stay there—not pulling back, and I feel the slow rise of his chest against my back as he breathes in.
“If something changes.” My voice cracks. “If you have to leave?—”
“Sophia.” My real name. He almost never uses it. The sound of it in his voice, without the armor of Crazy, does something to my chest I'm not ready for. “I'm not going anywhere.”
“You can't promise that.”
“I just did.” He takes my chin between his fingers and lifts my face toward him. “I made Reth a promise to protect you when he can’t.” He holds my eyes, touches my chin gently. “And now I’m promising you that I’ll stay for as long as you need me to. Got it?”
I press my lips together.
“You're stuck with me, Crazy.” The nickname comes back and the armor slides into place, but what's underneath it is different now. Warmer. “Get used to it.”
This close, he looks different—the easy grin stripped back to something quieter, something that wasn't on offer before tonight. A half smile, just barely. Like a thing he didn't mean to show me.
A stray tear falls, and Ian catches it with his thumb.
“Okay,” I say quietly.
“That's my girl.”
I sit up and empty my glass, swallowing the last sip of wine. “But if the flowers stop?—”
