I looked at him then, really looked. His eyes weren’t pleading; they were honest. Wounded. Not from pride, but from fear, the fear of losing something real. Something new.
"I didn’t fall in love with your face, Natasha," he said, stepping forward again. "I fell in love with your fire. Your silence, it says more than your words ever could. Your loyalty. Your stubbornness. Your strength."
I hated how easily those words slipped into the cracks I’d tried to seal. I looked away again, trying not to let him see it.
"I love you," he said simply. "And I want to spend the rest of my life proving that to you. Not because of the contract. Not because of the title. Because I can’t imagine breathing without knowing you’re in the same house." My throat tightened.
He stepped closer, hands out now, pa
