FORTY
JORDIE
Idon’t think I’m meant to understand it. Like a secret, sacred in its silence.
But I recognize the characters, etched into memory from hours spent writing them, convincing myself it was just practice.
How many times had I wanted to say it? To write it for him?
I don’t know how long I’ve been watching him. Moonlight spills through the window, tracing the soft planes of his face. Relaxed in sleep, he’s all gentle lines—the curve of his lashes, the quiet part of his lips whispering breath.
He loves me.
Callum Han loves me.
The thought settles over me, heavy and light all at once. My fingers curl into his shirt, feeling the beat of his heart under my palm.
And in the quietest moment, I lean in and whisper, so soft it barely exists—
“I love you, too.”