“You’re welcome,” Will said calmly. He was always extra extra William when he was drunk, going from laid-back to literal god levels of not-giving-a-fuck. “Anyway. What I’m trying to say is, if marriage is supposed to be love, he kind of killed your marriage the first time he hurt you.”

Abbie stiffened. “I—you—” Her throat was tight. “I didn’t realise you, er … knew about that.” Or rather, she had logically realised he must, but had decided to ignore it for her own good.

“Yeah, I knew,” Will said gently. “Why’d you think he wouldn’t come to Christmas the last couple of years? Harlan went to his job and threatened to kill him.”

Abbie wheezed. “Did he?”

“Of course,” Will said, like that was obvious and ordinary. Which she supposed it was. Or rather, it was exactly what she would do if some demon threw a book at her brother’s face and gave him a black eye.

Abbie supposed it rarely occurred to her that the people around her loved her as hard as she loved them.

There was something in that thought, but Will was still talking, still turning her upside down, heedless of all the feelings falling out of her pockets. “So I don’t think you should feel bad for kissing me, Abbie. I never meant that. I just meant—I always wondered—” Why was the last word, but Will sort of shook his head and decided not to say it. “Never mind,” he said instead. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter, Abbie.”

“I kissed you,” she blurted out, “because I knew it wouldn’t hurt. I knew it would be—good.” She stumbled over the words, but suddenly it seemed imperative to be honest about this one fucking thing. “I knew if I kissed you, it could only be good.”

Will released a slow, shuddering breath, juniper and frost. His hands settled at her hips, and it felt as if she’d been shifting slightly out of her own body, but he’d just anchored her again. “That,” he whispered, “is the best thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Somehow, her own hands were pressed against his chest, and she knew she should move them, but this felt like the greatest possible place for them to be. “That can’t be true.”

“It is.”

“Didn’t I ever tell you that joke about the interrupting cow?”

“Way better than that.”

“Well,” she whispered, her gaze caught on his mouth, “now I’m kind of insulted. I thought you loved that joke.”

“It’s terrible,” he replied. “I only laugh because you’re so bad at telling jokes.” She was halfway between a smile and a gasp of outrage when he added, “I’ve been a bad friend to you, Abbie.”

Which was so ridiculous, it wiped the amusement right off her face. “What?”