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“Shopping?” he echoes.

I nod. “I haven't bought anything for the baby.”

He wets his lips thoughtfully. “I was wondering when you were going to be ready for this.”

“Eager to go baby shopping?” I tease, though my heart is a wild pitter-patter in my chest.

“I am.” I don't expect his answer, and I feel heat climb into my cheeks.

I ignore it, soldiering on. “Maybe we should go tomorrow?”

“We can do that.”

“Good.” I nod, whispering breathlessly, “And I think—I think I'm ready.”

I watch as he swallows hard, watching me. He's always watched me so intently.

There's a quiet intensity to Tate that Holt has never possessed. It's never felt more intense than it does now, though. I've never felt more stripped bare with this man than I do in this moment. It's like he sees beneath my clothes, beneath my skin, to the darkness that conceals the secrets I keep within.

He clears his throat around a hard swallow.

There's a lilt of danger to his rumble that quickens my racing heart. “Ready for what, exactly?”

“You.” I suck in sharp air, adding a croaked, “For you.”

“For me?” God, do his eyes have to be so deep?

“For us…?” I don't know why I make that sound like a question. I shake my head, hating that my cheeks sting hotter as I blabber on. “I don't know. I just—I think I'm ready for life again, you know? I think—” I pause, swallowing hard. “I think I'm ready to stop hating myself so much.”

“Hating yourself?” He shakes his head once, brows furrowing.

I wet my lips. I whisper words that sound like a confession. “Punishing myself.”

That dangerous darkness that flashed in his eyes, it expands. It pushes out from the depths of him to spill into the space between us. The air suddenly feels thin. Dangerously thin.

“You've been punishing yourself?” His hand has stopped working my calf, and now is locked around my ankle.

I gulp, then I admit, “I think so.”

I feel so much shame. I hate that I feel any at all. More, I hate that I can't hide it. That it spills from my pores to taint the space between us.

I hate that my shame touches him at all.

I shift my eyes to the screen, needing a break from his. From all that his deep-sea green eyes make me feel.

Sometimes, he looks at me so deeply, I feel like I'm being pulled under water. Like I'm drowning in him. Like I might never come up for air again.

I'm not sure if that's good or not.

Sometimes it feels like a mercy.

“You're not the villain in this. You know that, right?” he demands after a long moment.

I still can't make myself look at him. I feel too much. But I nod.

It’s a silent lie.

He sees right through it.