Page 161 of Down Bad

“I missed you making sure I’d eaten dinner.” I study his cute face. “Missed seeing you through my window when you’d leave for church Sunday mornings. Missed us passing each other when we’d head out to work or come home. I missed … having someone who made more of a fuss over my wellbeing than anyone ever has my whole life.” I smirk at him. “Honestly kinda fuckin’ annoying.”

“Try being the one making the fuss,” he mumbles back.

I lift an eyebrow questioningly.

He takes a breath. “I need you to understand something.”

I’m not done with the big speech I’d planned, but the look in his eyes tells me to listen. “I’m all ears.”

“I don’t need a guardian deciding which people belong in my life, professionally or otherwise.”

“I know.”

“And I don’t need you fighting every battle for me.”

“You’re more than capable of fighting your own.”

“But sometimes … maybe I wouldn’t mind … having you next to me.” He meets my eyes. “When I fight my next one.”

I gaze back at him.

Breath knocked out of me.

“You … still want me next to you?” I ask him, struck by that.

“Depends.”

I frown. “On what?”

“On who’s asking the question.” He lifts an eyebrow. “Is it my neighbor asking?” His eyes drop to my chest. “The guy who comes when I send an SOS? … The guy who … kidnaps an orchid and takes it with him because he didn’t trust to leave it with the new family who moved in next-door?”

“Your boyfriend.”

Wyatt’s eyes snap to mine.

I’m not quite sure that was the end of the path he was leading me down.

But that’s where I brought us. Dropping the hammer with that little word that breaks his beautiful face apart.

“It’s your boyfriend asking,” I tell him. “If you want him next to you for all the battles you fight. I’ll trust you when you tell me you’re unbreakable. And if you fall on your ass anyway …” I shrug. “I can be standing next to you when you get back up.” I come even closer to him, right in front of him. “I don’t wanna just be the guy who comes when you need him anymore. I want to be here.”

“My boyfriend …” he murmurs, like he’s trying it out.

“If you’ll have me.”

His mouth does something funny.

Is it because I came closer to him?

“That’s … awfully presumptuous,” he says, “for a man whose orchid sits on the porch behind him half-dead.”

“It ain’t half dead.”

“Three-eighths.”

“Wyatt.”

His smile finally breaks through. “Yeah.”