Page 127 of Spies Don’t Fall for Their Best Friend

“That’s a very romantic list.”

I reach out and tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear. “I fell in love with the woman who sat down at my table in the university library because apparently three Tuesdays was enough time to assume we were friends.”

Her eyes soften.

“The woman who can turn waiting in line into an entire story about six people she’s never met. Who notices the kid in the library who needs somewhere quiet to exist. Who gets excited about bees and terrible small-town festivals and books with ridiculous covers.”

A tear reaches her jaw.

“The woman who walks into my family and makes every room better because she’s in it.” I pause. “The woman who knew it was me when I had different hair, someone else’s nose, and a voice that wasn’t mine.”

That almost gets a laugh. Almost.

“I knew your history. I knew your chaos. I knew your giant heart. I knew the ways you make my life less predictable. And I love all those things about you.”

I squeeze her hand. “The fertility piece is new.”

Her eyes stay on mine.

“You aren’t.”

She draws in a shaky breath. Then her gaze lowers to our hands. “What if someday you regret choosing me?”

I can tell this is the question underneath all the others. I don’t answer immediately. Not because I don’t know. Because I want to give her something true. “I can’t promise there won’t be things about our future that hurt.”

Her eyes lift.

“If biological children aren’t possible for us, there may be times we grieve that. But grieving a road we can’t take is not the same thing as regretting the person I’m walking with.”

Her face crumples slightly.

“And I will never turn that grief into a bill with your name on it.”

Another tear falls.

“If there’s something for us to grieve, we grieve it together, okay? If there are decisions to make, we make them together. I don’t know exactly what our future family looks like.” I intertwine my fingers in hers. “But I know who I want to build my future with.”

Her eyes close, and I let her have the silence. Then, she looks at me for a long moment before asking quietly, “You still want to date me?”

I almost laugh because the question is so inadequate for everything I just said. “Very much.”

Her mouth curves. “You still want to kiss me?”

“Also very much.”

“Good.”

I lean in slowly and kiss her. This kiss isn’t like last night. There’s no years-long anticipation rushing into it. No surprise.

It’s soft. Deliberate. And when I pull back, Reese shifts closer and curls against my side, resting her head against my shoulder. I wrap my arm around her.

For a while, neither of us says anything.

Eventually, Reese turns her head toward the kitchen and says, “I think our garlic bread is dead.”

I chuckle. “Probably.”

“The pasta is cold.”