“I like seeing you here,” he says, voice low, a little hoarse. “It makes me feel like this is real.” “Wyn.” I look up into his face, searching his stormy eyes, the rigid lines between his brows and framing his jaw. “Of course it’s real.” He folds his fingers through mine and brings my hands to the back of his neck, our foreheads resting together, our hearts whirring. “I mean,” he says, “like I can make you happy.” “This is me, happy,” I promise.
