Thatcher buttons his pants. “I’m putting my duffel under your bed. All of your clothes can go back in the closet.” I crinkle my brows. “You’re not living out of a bag.” “It doesn’t bother me—” “It bothers me,” I rebut. “Greatly.” I think quickly while he sidles next to me. “So you’d prefer not to unpack? Would you rather live somewhere else?” “Hell no.” Skin pleats his forehead. “I already said I want to be here.” More strongly, he emphasizes, “I want to live with you, Jane.”
