“For now, Desmond is perfect,” he agreed, and meant it more than he had meant anything in years, because he understood what she had actually handed him.

Not affection.

Not forgiveness.

Just a door, opened the width of a name, on her terms, that he had done nothing to deserve except seven years of not forcing it.

It was more than he had any right to, and he took it like water in a drought.

Chapter 30 — The Word, Earned