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“Because I care about you.”

Her cheeks flush and she purses her lips. “I am a big girl, Cole. You can’t keep me in the dark and then call it caring. This is my life. My father’s life. You don’t get to make decisions for me.”

She leaves the bathroom, and I follow.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re getting really good at apologizing, but it means nothing when you don’t change.” She snatches a robe off the bed. “The way you treat me isn’t love, Cole. It’s control.”

Rage blasts through me, but I don’t know who it’s directed at—me now, me then. Both. “I loved you, Sunday. Maybe not in the right way⁠—”

“Under-fucking-statement.” She tries to pass by but I block her path. “Move.”

“No. You’ve clearly waited ten years to say this, so fucking say it.”

She won’t look at me, but I can sense her anger climbing. A red blush has crept across her throat, highlighting the bruises. “I don’t have a damn thing to say.”

“Bullshit, Sunday. You always did. We always did. So just say it. Every argument you rehearsed in the shower, every monologue you wanted to scream in my face. Fucking. Say. It.”

She locks eyes with me now, and I wish she wouldn’t. The drops of green in her eyes seem to ignite at my invitation, and I don’t know whether I’m relieved or terrified.

“Fine.” She tosses the robe onto the floor. “I hate you.” Three words reach into my chest and tear out my heart. Best friends. Partners. Lovers. Strangers. Enemies. A path for so many, but not one I ever thought I’d take with her. “There. That’s it.” Her voice cracks, but she doesn’t break eye contact. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted to say to you.”

I nod, hoping I’m hiding the agony in my expression that my Sunday has said words I hoped I’d never hear from her. “Okay.”

“Your turn. What’s your monologue? What’s every excuse you’ve wanted to give me for breaking my heart?”

I stare down at Sunday Winters. My first love, my first crush, the girl who could turn my day around with a smile. My best fucking friend. The love of my life.

Ten years we’ve been apart, and every day I thought of you. Ten birthdays, ten Christmases, ten anniversaries, thousands of opportunities to tell you goodnight. All of them lost to time and regret. You weren’t one of my thoughts, Sunday, you were all of them. I whispered stories to you into dark skies above war-torn land. I watched a flickering flame on every birthday and gave my wish to you. You’ve been my ghost, Sunday. A love that’s haunted me because I killed it.

Those are the pretty words I rehearsed when I allowed myself to dream I’d talk to her again. They sit on the tip of my tongue, aching to finally be free, but now they don’t seem enough. None of it does.

Because the biggest lie I told overshadows all of it. A lie that would truly break her heart. One I’ll never say out loud for the damage it will cause.

“I love you.”

Her lip trembles. “Loved.”

“Love,” I correct, slipping my hand to the back of her neck. “I never stopped loving you, Sunday. Not for a fucking second. I don’t blame you for moving on. You deserved a future. But you were it for me.”

A tear falls down her cheek, and she looks torn between anger and despair. “Your actions say the total opposite.”

Gripping the back of her neck, I tug her closer, my nose brushing hers. “Then what does this say?” I whisper before our lips crash together. She must place her hatred aside because she leans into me, her arms around my neck, her tongue sweeping into my mouth as she cries quietly. I gather her closer, her body pressed to mine, the beating of two broken hearts finding rhythm together.

As I kiss her cheeks, her jaw, her tears, she clings to me.

“I don’t hate you. I’m sorry I said it because I don’t, I don’t,” she cries. “I hate what you did to me, but I could never hate you. I tried so, so hard. I just wanted you to hurt like I did.”

She kisses me again, and I lose myself in the feel of her lips. Running my hands down her body, I grip her waist to stop myself from squeezing her ass cheeks. Her fingers find the buttons of my shirt, but I catch her hands, lifting my mouth from hers. “Are you sure?”

Tears cling to her lashes, and she nods. “Are you?”

My kiss is my answer, and I lift her into my arms. Walking us to the bed, I place her down, my mouth never leaving hers. Cool air whispers across my skin as she unbuttons my shirt, pushing it over my shoulders and throwing it aside.

Sliding my hands underneath her, I pull at the string of her bikini top. Once it’s loose, I run my palm down her chest, the colorful material falling away. Her heavy breasts are tipped with peaked nipples, and I kiss one, and then the other, before circling them both with my tongue. Sunday arches her back, running her fingers through my hair.

“You’re so beautiful,” I whisper.