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His green eyes darken with sharp concern. He steps toward me. “Faye.”

He thinks I’m turning his question around on him to conceal something amiss. I’m not, but it makes me smile a small smile.

See? He’s good.

“I feel good.” His eyes take in all of my face, as though he’s searching for proof of lies. He won’t find any. I am good.

I take a step toward him, noting the way his pupils expand. His chest rises with an inhale, but he doesn’t move otherwise.

I ask again, “How are you?”

“Never better.”

I huff a laugh, shaking my head as I stare up at him. “You’re either full of shit or you’re delusional.”

A slow smirk settles into his lips. “Does a man have to be only one thing?”

I tear my eyes from his mouth, swatting tenderly at him. “I’m serious. I never ask how you are—and I’m sorry for that. I want to know. For real.”

His smirk slowly settles into seriousness as he studies me again, gauging readiness, I think.

He must decide that I am ready, because he says, “Hopeful.”

My breath catches. “Hopeful,” I repeat.

Tate nods. “I feel hopeful.”

“For what?”

Again, he studies me. Again, he decides I’m ready. “That you might love me like you loved—love him. One day.”

Again, my breath snags. “Tate⁠—”

“Did you mean it?” he interrupts. “When you said you let him go, did you mean it?”

I take a moment to be sure. To feel my feelings in all their uncomfortable truths. Holt is still there inside me, rooted in the crypt of my heart. I think he’ll always be there. But there’s room, I realize, for Tate. For a future beyond the one I’d planned for with Holt. For change.

There is room to love my past while letting that past rest.

There is room to move forward now. To live and to love.

To reach for hope and grasp hold of it.

I don’t want to live in punishment anymore…

“Yes.” The word climbs from the tight of my throat to settle between us, weighted and yet filled with possibility. “I meant it.”

His eyes shutter closed. It’s only a moment, but I can’t miss the relief that paints the canvas of his face.

His eyes open when my palms connect with his chest where his heart thunders. I don’t hesitate to lean in close, to rise onto my tiptoes and press a kiss to the line of his jaw while he stands frozen, not even breathing.

It’s sweet. This man is so, so sweet.

I lean back to find his eyes are fixed sharply on me. Like he’s trying to decode all the mysteries that make me.

I flash him a smile that dares him to try and uncover my mysteries before I say, “I’m not tired. Are you tired?”

“No,” he croaks, clears his throat, and repeats, “No.”