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“I missed you,” he said. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t desperate. It was … life. I paused at the top of the stairs. “Jericho missed you too. But … not as much as I did.”
I wasn’t asking for permission to love him. I wasn’t asking him to love me back. I wasn’t asking for anything.
Smart women saved a part of their hearts—like if even a small part were left intact, it could grow a full heart again. One cell at a time. Nope. I let the whole fucking organ dive off the cliff, which meant he would leave me heartless and broken.
