He loved her, and he would probably never be able to tell her so. And she was surprisingly okay with that. She’d rather he look at her the way he did for the rest of their lives. She’d rather he cook for her the way he did every morning. She’d rather he hold her neck like he did when she was old and gray. He had given her a home, somewhere she belonged, just as she was. Be it his penthouse or the cottage or this hotel room, he was her anchor. She was never going to be alone again.
