“When I said you were perfect, I meant it. Whether we’re fighting or fucking, stones, you’re perfect. You’re everything. Exactly as you are. I love—” My heart leaps at that word. “I love everything about you,” he says, softly, slowly. “I love the way you argue. The way you laugh. I even love the way you hate me.” “I don’t hate you,” I whisper. “And I love that.”
