“As Jericho turned over the engine, Atticus asked, “Why do you think my dad—Thomas—got it wrong? Why do you think I’m not a psychopath?”

“A lot of reasons. Because you felt for me after Lucas…did what he had to do. Because you worry so much about what others think about you. Because you embarrass easily, get flustered easily, you love being touched, being praised.” Those were all true, but it wasn’t the real reason he thought Thomas had gotten it wrong. “But mostly, I believe it because I’m pretty sure you’re in love with me.”

Jericho swore he could see Atticus’s pulse fluttering in his throat. He flicked his tongue out to lick over his lower lip. “Pretty sure?”

Jericho shrugged. “It could just be wishful thinking.”

“You want me to be in love with you?” Atticus asked, suspicious.

Jericho should have known Atticus would never put himself out there like that. “I mean, I’d hate to think I’m in this alone.”

Atticus’s breath left him in a whoosh, like it had been punched from his lungs. “You…love me?”

Jericho shook his head. “Was there ever a doubt?”