“You’ll hurt yourself.” He frowned, uncharacteristically stern, and then proceeded to shove his hand under the thorns like the two of them were made of entirely different organic materials. Or perhaps he was simply behaving like his coat was thicker than hers, which was true, so, fair enough.

He carefully lifted the bramble, and beneath it lay Gravy, who … appeared to be giving birth.

“Are you kidding me?” Will demanded. “Seriously? Seriously?” His voice was practically a growl. Abbie didn’t think she’d ever heard him so frustrated.

“It’s okay,” she said, unwinding the scarf from her neck. “We can help—”

“I’m not worried about the cat, Abbie,” he interrupted, which was also rather out of character. Will was very fond of cats, except for the part where they made him hack his lungs up after prolonged proximity. “I’m talking about the fact that you just told me you love me. You just told me that, and I want to kiss you until I die, and instead I have to hold a bush while you talk Gravy through contractions.” She’d been avoiding his gaze very carefully since her confession began—but he said all this with such desperate, disbelieving passion in his voice that Abbie’s gaze was drawn to him without permission. And when she looked at him, she found that same desperation in his eyes, frantic and achingly tender, and it made her feel as if he’d touched every inch of her skin slowly and lovingly all at once.

The tight braid of nerves in her stomach unravelled, just a little. Enough for her to keep confessing, even as she tucked her scarf around an exhausted-looking Gravy and monitored the extremely gross but not unfamiliar miracle of life being squeezed out before their eyes.

“The thing is,” she told Will as she peered at the bubble-like amniotic sack, “I … I don’t think my loving you is as important as you might think—”

“Disagree,” Will said immediately.

She ignored him. “—Because I’m not very good at it. Love, I mean. I have some, erm, issues, you might have noticed, and I’m so scared, Will. I really am. I’m afraid all the fucking time. And sometimes—often—I let that fear control what I do, and that’s when I make mistakes and hurt people, and I really don’t want to hurt you.”

“This is why you’ve been pushing me away,” he said. “Not because you don’t feel the same.”

“I feel more.”

“You don’t,” he told her. “You don’t.”