“This thing between us is too fucking much.” His hand flattens on his chest, over his heart, fingers curling into his shirt. “I spent all those years not letting those people inside. I kept myself safe,” he pounds his fist, “in here. But you showed up in a fancy ballgown, guns blazing, West End wild, taking every fucking thing I threw at you. You were supposed to cry. To run. To make it easy for me to break you. But you didn’t break. You just kept fucking going. And then…” My stomach clenches. “Then what?” His eyes dart to my belly, then back up, making his hair flop in his eyes. “You rescued
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