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My throat tightens.

I turn the support vest over.

There is stitching on the inside, small enough that nobody sees unless I show them.

CHOSE BITTER

I look up.

He looks terrified.

Actually terrified.

“I ain't asking you to be property.”

My eyes burn.

“I know.”

“I don't want my name over yours.”

I run my fingers across the stitching.

“You put yours inside.”

“Where it belongs.”

I laugh through the tears.

“That is disgustingly romantic.”

“I had help.”

“Mercy?”

“No.”

“Mourning?”

He winces.

“Worse.”

“Vesper?”

“Both.”

“Oh God.”

“They argued about font.”

“Of course they did.”

Bitter takes a breath.

“You don't have to wear it.”

I look at him.