“I love you.” The way he whispers my three favorite words, laced with brokenness, sounds like they’re not quite meant for me to hear. Or maybe they are. Just one last time. “Carter.” His face, over his rough stubble, the strong line of his rugged jaw. “Look at me, baby.” He doesn’t. He doesn’t move a muscle, except for the almost imperceptible tic in his jaw, the vein pulsing in the side of his neck. “Carter. Look at me.” “I can’t,” he whispers, the words weak, shattered. Something wet drops, splattering onto my forearms where I’m reaching between us, holding his face in my hands.
