“I need you to know,” he says, “that I adore you. In fact, I—I love you. A lot. A ridiculous amount, really, but who am I to argue with, er, feelings?” He winces. His discomfort is a weight on my chest; the kind that comes from a huge dog trusting you enough to fall asleep there. “I love you,” he repeats, firmer now, “and you’re brilliant, you’re gorgeous, you’re perfect—for me. I think you’re perfect for me. So, I wanted to ask if you’d possibly give me another chance. Because I want you. I mean, forever. I—okay, that’s enough.” He nods sharply and presses his free hand into his thigh.
