“Kauss.”
I look at her.
The joking fades.
“I’m here,” I say quietly.
Her face folds before she can stop it, and the tears she has been holding back spill over. She wipes them angrily with her good hand.
“I know,” she whispers. “I keep checking.”
My chest aches in a place no machine can repair.
“I am sorry,” I say.
“You already apologized.”
“Not enough.”
“No. Probably not.” She sniffles, then gives me a wet, fierce look. “But you also came back.”
“I promised.”
“You have a complicated relationship with promises.”
“Yes.”
“That one you kept.”
I lift our joined hands, slowly, carefully, until her knuckles rest against my mouth. I kiss them.
“I will keep the next one better,” I say.
“What next one?”
I meet her eyes. “Yes.”
Her breath catches.
She knows exactly what I mean.
But Evie Mercy is not a woman who lets a man escape with one-word answers after nearly dying twice and emotionally detonating her life. Her eyes narrow through tears.
“Say it properly.”
Pain tugs at my side when I try to shift toward her. I ignore it carefully. “I want to move in with you.”
Her lips part.
I continue before fear can make ruins of language. “I want my coat on your hook. I want my tools in the bottom drawer beneath the obsolete takeout menus. I want keys. I want mornings in the bakery and nights above it. I want your angry plants, inaccurate magnets, and badly sung songs. I want to argue about refrigeration and be insulted by Darlene before coffee.”
Her tears fall harder now.
I hold her gaze. “It is still a big step.”
A laugh breaks through her crying.
“This time,” I say, “I know where I want to step.”
