“I don’t know what to apologize for first,” I say. “Cutting off your head or hesitating so long to do it. I didn’t want to lose what little there was left of you. And I can’t quite think past how wonderous it is that you’re alive.” “You don’t know how long I’ve waited to hear those words,” he says. “You don’t want me dead.” “If you joke about this, I am going to—” “Kill me?” he asks, raising both black brows. I think I might hate him after all.
