Page 49 of The Ex-Girlfriend Agreement

When he reaches the glass, we're separated by just inches of transparent barrier, close enough that I can see the flecks of darker gray in his eyes, the slight stubble on his jaw from missing his morning shave.

"Brooke?" His voice is muffled by the glass, but I can read the question in it clearly enough. "What are you doing here?"

"I love you," I blurt out, not caring who hears, not caring about anything except making him understand. "I love you, and I'm sorry, and I was wrong."

His eyes widen slightly, but he doesn't respond, waiting for more. And suddenly, all the words I couldn't find in the taxi come pouring out.

"I've been so afraid," I continue, pressing my palm against the glass separating us. "Afraid of losing my independence, my career, the life I've built. But I've been so busy protecting myself from potential hurt that I didn't see the real damage I was doing—to you, to us, to any chance at happiness."

Around us, travelers slow their hurried pace, some stopping outright to watch the drama unfolding. I barely notice them, focused entirely on Dean's face, on the subtle shifts of emotion there.

"I don't have all the answers," I admit. "I don't know exactly how we make it work—your ranch, my job, the distance. But I know I want to figure it out together. I know that nothing I've achieved means anything without you to share it with."

Dean places his hand against the glass, mirroring mine, our palms aligned but unable to touch. "You said you wanted to be friends," he reminds me, his voice still guarded. "Just this morning."

"I was wrong. I was scared. I was an idiot." I laugh, the sound edged with tears. "I don't want to be your friend, Dean. I want to be your partner. In everything."

Something shifts in his expression, wariness giving way to cautious hope. "What changed your mind?"

"My mother asked why I was letting you go again," I say simply. "And I realized I didn't have a good answer. There is no good answer for walking away from the best thing that's ever happened to me."

A small crowd has gathered now, watching our exchange with unabashed interest. Someone nearby whispers, "Is this real life or a movie?" and a part of me wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all—me, Brooke Callahan, practical to a fault, making a public declaration of love in the middle of an airport.

But mostly, I don't care about the audience. I only care about the man on the other side of the glass, whose expression is softening by the second.

"I lied before," I tell him, my voice breaking slightly. "I said it was fake, just pretend. But it never was. Not for a single moment."

"Brooke—" he starts, but I need to finish, need to say everything before I lose my nerve.

"I'm not asking you to give up your ranch or your life in Colorado. I'm not even asking you to forgive me right away for pushing you away. I'm just asking for a chance—a real chance to build something together. To find a compromise that isn't a sacrifice but a new path forward." I swallow hard, gathering courage for the final plea. "Please don't get on that plane. Please give us one more try."

The terminal seems to hold its breath as Dean stares at me through the glass. Then, slowly, he shakes his head.

"I can't," he says, and my heart plummets until he continues: "I can't hear you properly through this damn glass."

And then he's turning, moving away, and for one terrible moment I think he's heading to his gate, rejecting my grand gesture. But instead, he's striding toward the exit that will take him back to the unsecured area, to me.

I run to meet him, not caring about the stares or whispers, focused only on reaching him. When he emerges from the security exit, I launch myself toward him, barely giving him time to brace before I'm in his arms, my face pressed against his chest, breathing in the scent of him.

"I'm sorry," I whisper against his shirt, feeling his arms tighten around me. "I'm so sorry for pushing you away, for being too afraid to fight for us."

Dean's hand comes up to tangle in my hair, cradling my head against him. "Shh," he soothes, his voice rumbling in his chest beneath my ear. "It's okay."

I pull back just enough to look up at him, needing to see his face. "It's not okay. I hurt you. Again."

His smile is gentle, if a bit cautious. "Yeah, you did. But showing up here? That counts for something."

"It counts for everything," I insist, fingers curling into his shirt. "I love you, Dean McAllister. I never stopped loving you. And I'm done running from it."

Around us, the impromptu audience breaks into applause, someone letting out a wolf whistle that makes me flush with embarrassment. But Dean doesn't seem to notice anyone else, his eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that steals my breath.

"Say it again," he requests softly.

"I love you."

He studies me for a long moment, searching for any hint of hesitation or doubt. Finding none, his expression transforms, joy breaking across his features like sunrise.

"I love you too," he says, then bends to capture my lips in a kiss that feels like coming home—like every piece that's been out of place for two years finally shifting back to where it belongs.

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