““Baby,” he murmured roughly, staring at me fixedly with half-closed eyes, “I try and put myself in your damn shoes every single day. Because you’re my girl. You’re my woman. You’re my partner. You’re my lover. And if I can’t try and fucking understand you and that complex, crazy head of yours, then I’m not doing my job. Then I’m not worthy of you. I want to be worthy of you, baby. I want to know how you work, how you function, how you think. I want to know you so I can be there for you and be there with you. There’s not a day that I’m not trying to discover another one of your beautiful layers. So don’t say that I’m not in your shoes. I’ve been wearing them more than you think.””
