“Axel,” she breathes. I watch her watching the sunrise, knowing I could do this the rest of my life: witness sunlight painting Rooney better than I ever could, the day wrapping its arms around her, illuminating what’s inside her heart—warmth, hope, a depth of joy I never thought I’d know, let alone love, yet here I am. So fucking gone for it. Gone for her. I’ve been afraid to tell her. I’m terrible at risking changes like this. What if she doesn’t feel the same way? What if it chases her off? What if? I’ve spun my tires for days, wondering, but what finally stopped me is this: Reminding myself
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