Then he shrugs, slow and heavy.
"You," he says simply.
"You," he repeats, voice rough, like it costs him something to say it out loud. "And a little place. Quiet. Safe. Kids running wild. You laughing."
I bite my lip hard.
Fighting the sting behind my eyes.
Fighting the memory of everything we lost.
"That’s a nice dream," I whisper.
He finally turns to look at me.
Full-on.
His face all harsh planes and old scars.
But his eyes, Gods, his eyes are soft.
"Still can be," he says, dead serious. "If we make it outta here."
I study him.
Every broken, battered, stubborn inch of him.
And I know in my bones that I’m not just surviving for the kids anymore.
I’m surviving forhim, too.
For us.
I push off the wall, stepping right into his space.
Close enough to smell the dust and gun oil and raw, beating life on him.
Close enough to see the flicker of fear he tries to bury when I reach up and cup his jaw.
"You hear me, Traz?" I whisper. "I love you."
The words are small.
Ragged.
But real.
They hit harder than any bullet.
He stiffens like I shot him.
Then he grabs me.
Pulls me in so hard my breath whooshes out in a gasp.
His arms crush me to his chest, rough and shaking.
"I’m never leaving you again," he growls against my hair.
