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“What are you doing?” he asks.

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m packing.”

“For where?”

“London.”

He frowns.

“Why? Why are you going to London?”

“Because I’ve bought a ticket. And also…there’s an art exhibition. The one I’ve always wanted to see.”

There’s a beat of silence. I can feel him processing it.

“And you were just going to leave?” he asks quietly.

“Without telling me?”

I shrug.

“Why would I? It’s not we’re talking or whatever…”

That one hits.

I see it in his eyes – the flicker of guilt, of regret, of something raw he usually keeps buried under arrogance and cruelty.

He exhales and runs a hand through his hair.

“Pri… Jamie… I’m sorry.”

I freeze.

He steps closer.

“I’ve been an asshole. I know I have. I always am when I don’t know how to say what I actually feel. And I know how much it hurts you to hear all those stupid things I have to say, to keep that part of me a secret. To keepusa secret.”

I turn fully toward him now.

“I hurt you,” he continues.

“And I hate that. I hate that I keep doing it. To myself. But mostly to you.”

My heart is pounding so hard I’m scared he can hear it.

“And I—” his voice drops.

“I love you, Jamie. I have been for some time.”

I blink.

“You just said the “L” word,” I say faintly.

“Yes,” he says without hesitation.

“I did.”

I swallow.