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He dipped his head, pressing a kiss to my cheek and catching a stray tear that managed to slip by my defenses. Then he pulled back and looked me in the eye while he licked it off his lips. “I’m done fucking fighting, Meyah. Would I rather you here with me? Fuck, yes. But what’s more important is that you’re happy, and as your old man, it’s my job to make you fucking happy. And if that means I have to fly to Arizona every damn weekend. Okay. It is what it is.”
I swallowed back the emotional lump in my throat and ran my hands down the front of his body, tracing the patches on his club cut with my fingers, wanting to memorize them. How they looked. How they felt. “It’s gonna be hard.”
“Just because a relationship is easy, doesn’t mean it’s good.” He grinned, brushing my hair back from my face. “It’s about trust, honesty, hard work, and there will probably be days where it will be fucking hell to be across the country from you.”
It would be.
I knew this. I’d been trying to avoid it for days, weeks even, since I really knew in my heart he couldn’t have done what I’d imagined he’d done.
I knew in my gut.
I know him.
“But better a day in hell with you than in heaven with anybody else,” I interjected with a smile.
We’d make it work.
“Fucking right, fury fists. Fucking right.”
