His gaze sharpens significantly, and for a fleeting second, I brace myself for him to tell me that I’m being completely unreasonable or overly dramatic. But instead of any of that happening, he lets out a quiet breath.
“You’re not wrong, baby. I do know almost everything that has shaped you into who you are today, and you know virtually nothing about what shaped me. Nothing at all, actually.”
“Thank you,” I say softly, the tightness in my chest easing just a fraction. “Thank you for saying that.”
“So,” he says, shifting his posture so he’s looking directly at me, his hand still resting possessively against my back. “What exactly do you want to know?”
The openness of the invitation catches me off guard, making me hesitate as I try to pick a thread to pull on. “You mean… literally anyth
