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He brushed a lock of hair from my face, tucked it behind my ear. And looked at me as if I was a miracle.
“I love you,” I said, and felt tears shimmer again, but pushed them relentlessly back.
“I love you, too. And pickles, apparently.”
I rolled my eyes. “Predictable.”
“No, I’m not. And you certainly aren’t. And I love you in spite of it.” He leaned down, pressed his forehead to mine. “Who would have thought, brat?”
“Not me, puppy. Not me.”
He traced a finger along my shoulder. “Let’s go home. I have plans for you.”
I was entirely onboard.
