Page 118 of If Love Had A Manual

“You’re mine.”

A shaky breath leaves me as the tension uncoils in my chest, and I feel a hint of hope stirring.

But hope is such a fickle thing. I know that.

Sensing the shift, his thumb brushes my lower lip, then drifts up to press gently into my cheek, nudging it into a half smile. “There she is,” he says. “I’m not good with words, Lena, but I’ll do my best. Every time I see you with Rosie, every time I wake up and you’re here, I feel like I’m finally breathing right. I’ve never had this.Not ever. But I want it.” His voice cracks around the edges, but he doesn’t try to hide it. “I don’t know how to be good at it yet, but I’m trying. For you. For both of you.”

I try to speak around the lump in my throat, but it’s choking me.

“Did you hear me? Because if you ever need me to say it again—”

I surge forward and press my mouth to his in a kiss that answers everything. His arms loop around me with a groan, pulling me back down onto his chest.

And just like that, the worry fades into another wave of desire. I don’t resist. I let the sheets slip away.

There’s no urgency. It’s a slow reaffirmation that we’re here, together. That we’re holding something fragile yet precious.

This time, we don’t fall apart.

This time, we fall into each other.

Forty-Four

Ipush open the door to Grandpa’s room, a paper bag of contraband snacks tucked under one arm and the day’s newspaper clutched in the other. It’s too quiet. There’s no hum of the radio, no dramatic commentary about scores or whatever manager “needs to be sacked by morning.” Just stillness. And the first thought that comes to mind is that maybe this is it.

Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead.

Then I see the rise and fall of his chest, and relief slams into me like a sucker punch.

Still breathing. Still here.

The nurse warned me he was extra tired today. She told me not to worry and said it like that ever stopped me before.

“Hey, old man.” I raise the bag like an offering. “Brought you illegal substances and tabloid trash. It’s a party.”

He stirs as his eyelids flutter. That same weathered face slowly turns toward me, gaze a little dimmer but still sharp enough to clock the donut holes I’m holding.

“You act like I’m some invalid,” he croaks, the rasp in his voice worse than last week.

I grin and drop into the chair beside his bed. “Well, youarein a nursing home.”

“You watch that smart mouth.” His lips twitch, almost like he wants to smirk and just forgot how.

I set the bag on his side table and pull out the magazine. “I also brought your secret shame. Celeb gossip.”

“I read for the sports.”

“You read for the drama.”

He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t even reach for it, and just lies there, head barely tilted toward me, and my stomach knots.

He looks…wrong.

Too pale. Too still. And under all that usual crusty charm, I can see the tightness around his mouth. The kind that means he’s in pain but doesn’t want to admit it.

“You hurting?” I ask.

His eyes close for a second too long. “They changed my meds. They make me feel like I’m walking underwater.”

---