“What do you see when I look at you?” He flinched. “That’s not the—” “What do you see, Joe?” “You,” he whispered brokenly. “I see you, Molloy.” “You see love,” I corrected softly, releasing his hand to cup his stubbly cheek. “You see acceptance.” He swallowed but didn’t reply. “We’re mirrors, Joe,” I told him, taking his hand and placing it on my cheek. “Everything you feel for me is reciprocated. It’s mirroring back at you.” “Molloy.” “Your mother might be foolish enough to disregard you, but that will never happen from me,” I whispered, shifting closer until our noses were brushing. “I will
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