Page 217 of The Lies We Play

My guy.

“We should call her in the morning,” he says.

“We will.”

“She’ll ask if I cried.”

“She’ll know.”

“She always knows.”

“Yeah,” I say. “She does.”

He closes his eyes.

I keep him close.

The rain keeps moving down the windows. The wine sits open on the table. Somewhere in Paris, Liv is asleep because she asked us to respect that boundary, and somehow respecting it has made this room feel more like ours, not less.

Halston breathes against me.

Slower now.

Then he says, “I don’t want to lose the Brooklyn apartment.”

“You won’t.”

“I just told you I’m not taking it.”

“I heard you.”

His eyes open.

I look at him.

“Brooklyn isn’t a place, Hal,” I say. “It’s the part where we go with you.”

He goes still.

This time, the stillness is not fear.

It is recognition.

I brush my thumb along his jaw.

“You want to sit at the table and fight them? We’ll sit with you. You want to leave the table later? We’ll leave with you. You want the townhouse back because it was hers? We’ll get it back. You want a small apartment, bad water pressure, Liv’s books everywhere, my gear by the door? We can have that too.”

His breath catches.

“Creed.”

“You don’t have to choose between the fight and us.”

His eyes close again, but only for a second.

When he opens them, he looks wrecked.

Loved.