“You are a masterpiece, Sylvie,” I whisper against her hair. “I’m a mess.” “We’re all a mess, but the trick is to find someone who thinks your mess is a masterpiece. Your parents might be blind fucking eejits, but I’m not. I know a masterpiece when I see it.” For the first time since before those monsters showed up today, I see my wife smile. After a moment, she softly whispers, “I love you.” My heart starts to pound, and I have to force myself to breathe, but I try not to let it show. Instead, I stroke her back and let those three words wash over me. “I love you too, Sylvie.”
