“Fuck,” he rasps. “You’re perfect.” I’m not. I’m so far from perfect that it’s laughable. I’m insecure and messy and broken, and I have a tendency to do or say the wrong thing. But I still feel a warmth blossom in my chest. Coming from Drew, it doesn’t sound like a lie or a line. It sounds true. And I care what he thinks of me. Care more than I’ve ever considered anyone else’s opinion about anything, let alone me.
