“You know I love you, Lola,” he says, his voice whisper soft, breath brushing my lips, my stomach tumbling in circles with his words. It’s the first time he’s said it outright. I should tell him I love him too, that this is right, that I’m happy we found each other. But I’m me. I can’t let him do this. So I smile, smile big—I let that much show before I speak. “Yeah, I know.” His lips tip up, and he puffs out a small laugh, rolling his eyes, but that thumb keeps brushing my skin like a metronome. “Will you ever make it easy on me?” “Would you love me if I did?” I ask in response. “Probably
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