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“Why?” Jane asked, turning towards him in the dark. John shifted against his pillow, finding the shine of her eyes. “That night. Why couldn’t you do it? For all you knew I’d tried to kill you. I had a gun in your face.”
“Could you have?” He asked, turning the question back on her. He brought his hands up to fold under his head.
“I didn’t.” But he knew— she could have. She still might someday, if he really pissed her off.
“But if I hadn’t surrendered?”
“I wouldn’t have put my gun down first.” He smirked. He knew that too.
“You still haven’t answered my question.” She rose her eyebrows at him, in a challenge. Ever impatient, not ever wanting her time wasted.
“You still looked like Christmas.” His lip quirked up, rearranging his features into a mask of adoration as he stared at her outline. “Even with your face scrunched up all vicious, that glock pointed at me. Blood dried to your cheek. You still looked like everything I ever wanted. Like the best goddamn present under the tree, and I still needed to know what was under all the pretty wrapping. You were still my wife. More my wife than you’d ever been in your little dresses or sitting across the dinner table.”
She returned his smile, satisfied if not a bit mystified. Sometimes she found herself unsure of the why, of how they had survived as a unit for as long as they had. After all the lies, all the half-truths. All the near kills.
The odds were undeniably stacked against them. Luckily, they were both well-versed in overcoming any odds.