Page 249 of Reckless Obsession

Because having it? Having what I have with Tristan?

It’s everything.

Being in love with Tristan isn’t a quiet, tame thing. It’s an anchor dropped in the middle of a storm. For years, I thought love was supposed to be a collision of pain and adrenaline that burned hot until it blew up in your face.

But with Tristan, being in love feels like breathing after years of choking. It feels like knowing that no matter how feral I get, no matter how hard the static in my head screams, there is a pair of hands strong enough to hold me down without crushing me.

Loving him is grocery shopping and arguing over what to cook. It’s Tristan working while I paint beside him. It’s me walking into his office just to annoy him because I’ve decided he’s been working too long. It’s him finding me asleep on the couch and carrying me to bed without waking me.

It’s arguments over stupid things.

It’s apologies.

It’s laughter.

It’s bad days and good days.

It’s waking up beside the same person and realizing you still want to tell them everything that happened in your head while they were asleep.

“What’s that face for?” Tristan asks. His eyes search mine as his hands tighten around my waist.

“What face?”

“The one you get when you’re thinking about everyone else instead of paying attention to me.”

“You’re jealous of my thoughts now?”

“Yeah.” A smirk tugs at his mouth. “If they’re not all about me.”

“When did you get so cocky?” I raise a brow. “You’ve been spending too much time with me, I see.”

“I’ve been spending exactly the right amount of time with you.”

I open my mouth to argue, but he brushes his thumb along my side, slow and absentminded, and I lose the thread of whatever I was about to say. Tristan notices. Of course he does.

“I love you,” he says.

Just like that. No teasing left in his voice. He looks at me as though it’s the simplest thing in the world to say, and after two years, I should be used to hearing it.

I’m not.

Every single time Tristan says it, my chest caves inward like it’s the very first time. A wild, electric flutter trips in my ribs, making my breath hitch as if my heart still can’t quite fathom that this man belongs to me.

“I love you,” I whisper back, the admission thick in my throat.

His expression softens, and I lean down to kiss him. He meets me halfway, one hand slipping up my back while the other holds me steady on his lap. I take my time. The wind moves across the terrace, and somewhere below us the waves reach the beach, but all I feel is his mouth against mine.

When I pull away, he follows me just enough to steal another kiss.

“Greedy,” I murmur.

“For you? Always.”

I laugh, but my heart is full because I truly mean what I’m about to say.

I look at him.

My future husband.

My home.

My favorite person.

My beautiful, infuriating, patient man.

And I smile.

“I really fucking love you, Tristan.”

His smile comes slowly, warm enough to undo me.

“I really fucking love you too, Maksim.”