I’ve always thought Teagan was beautiful, but right now, flushed from lovemaking and curled up next to me, there’s a glow to her that makes me ache for more. More from her. More from us. If I could steal hours from next week to give us tonight, I’d do it. Instead, I settle for kissing her again, running my hand down her back, mapping out each tiny peak and valley of her spine.

She breaks the kiss and traces an imaginary line across my pecs, as if she wants to memorize me in this moment as much as I want to memorize her. “How will you spend your morning?”

“I’m going to check on Isaiah. He’s healing, but without his dad around . . .” Some of the night’s warmth and joy drains from me. “I don’t know. He probably doesn’t want me there, but I can’t let him push me away.”

She scoots closer, nestling her head in the crook of my shoulder. When she sighs, her breath dances across my chest. “You’re right. He needs you.”

I shift uncomfortably. “I don’t know about that.”

“He does. He talked about you a lot.”

“When?”

“On Monday—after you left and before he was discharged. He admires you, and I’m sure he misses his dad, but he knows—on some level—that he’s lucky to have you.”

“Thank you.” Taking the words as more than blown smoke is hard, but I make myself do it—even if that little bit of truth feels heavier than I expected, like a weight I’m not sure I can carry or deserve to.

She returns to tracing across my chest then dips her hand lower to take a similar tour across my abdomen.

“You were right this morning, you know.” I focus on my breathing. In. Out. It’s so hard to talk about this shit, but I want to try with Teagan. I want her to understand. “I’m sorry that I shut you down when you tried to talk to me about Max this morning. It’s just . . .” I search her face. “I do blame myself, and maybe if Isaiah’s mom weren’t a total piece of crap, it wouldn’t be so hard, but I feel like I failed to protect the person that kid needed most in the world.”

Her fingers trail up my side, then my neck, and into my hair, until she’s nudging me to my back and rolling to straddle me. When she looks into my eyes, there’s sadness in hers. Or perhaps . . . compassion. Understanding. “It wouldn’t be easier if you’d died next to Max. The kid was dealt a shitty hand, but it would only be worse for him if you were gone too.” She grazes my stubble with her fingertips. “I know it’s hard to be the one who lived, the one who carries that, and maybe it’s self-centered to perceive your grief through my own needs, but I want you to know I’m so grateful you made it out.”