A handful of letters doesn't always make a word, love.

And if you insist on continuing to make assumptions about my character, I’ll advise you only this: assume you will always be wrong.

You allow the world to think you're a heartless murderer," I tell him. "And you're not."

He laughs, once; his eyebrows lifting in surprise. "No," he says. "I'm afraid I'm just the regular kind of murderer.

I feel like I’ve been split open and stuffed with sunshine.

His hands are holding my cheeks, and he pulls back just to look me in the eye and his chest is heaving and he says, "I think," he says, "my heart is going to explode," and I wish, more than ever, that I knew how to capture moments like these and revisit them forever.

Because this.

This is everything.

It's not charity," I snap. "He cares about me--and I care about him!"

Warner nods, unimpressed. "You should get a dog, love. I hear they share much the same qualities.