“In Iraq, I promised you a bed of rose petals.” He grabbed my hand under the table, tightening his grip as if he were falling from a precipice and our connection was the only thing saving him from certain death. “They were beautiful.” “You smell like apples. Roses were wrong.” There was nothing soft about his tone, but his quiet words were for me alone. “I want everything to be right for you.” “Caden, look at me.” I caught his gaze and held it. He was confident. Arrogant. Sure he had a place in the world. And under that was the man who needed me to be that place. “If I could…” He smiled and shook his head at a silly thought he wanted to dismiss but couldn’t—a contradiction in keeping with the whole man I married. “If I could write my love in the sky, it wouldn’t be big enough. I’d run out of room. I’d fall out of the air trying to say it all.” He was saying it all. Every day. And he was falling out of the sky to do it.
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