Suddenly, it all feels too heavy. The weight of the work decision hovering above my head. The realization that this thing with Jaxon could besomethingif I’m in Nashville for work moreoften. The knowledge that I just might want that, even if I’m too terrified to admit it.
It’s all just…too much.
I know all the lyric-less music in the world isn’t going to get me there tonight.
“Would you…mind if we pushed pause on the spice coaching this week?” I ask Jaxon tentatively. “I know you did a bunch of prep for it, but I’m just not in the right frame of mind.”
Jaxon searches my gaze…for something.
I stare back, willing him to recognize that this isn’t about him—this isn’t about us. It’s about me and my inability to let things go.
“Counteroffer,” Jaxon says, his warm fingers brushing over the exposed skin between my sweatshirt and my jeans. “Netflix and chill. But the way the kids meant it in like 2015.”
I let out a snort of laughter. “You mean actual Netflix and actual chill?”
“Exactly. No spice. No coaching. No pressure,” Jaxon says, offering me his hand like we’re about to ballroom dance instead of scroll through a million shows we’ll never finish. “We’ll argue over snacks, get halfway into an episode, and then end up talking through the good parts. The real couple experience.”
I let him pull me to my feet. “Are you saying we’ve already reached the ‘talks through the movie’ stage of our fake relationship?”
“Absolutely. I plan to be extremely annoying and ask questions about plot holes I missed because I was texting.”
“Perfect,” I say, cracking a real smile. “I’ll be sure to sigh dramatically and pretend I hate it.”
“That’s my girl.”
My heart stutters…just once.
He doesn’t notice what he said. Or maybe he does and meant it exactly the way it sounded. Either option is equally terrifying.
We migrate to the couch, and Jaxon insists on flipping through at least fifteen titles before we land on some heist movie neither of us has seen. It’s the kind with over-the-top explosions and suave criminals who somehow have time to flirt mid-crisis. I grab us both cans of sparkling water and dig out a forgotten bag of peanut M&M’s from the pantry. We don’t talk about Nashville or clients or how to get my body to act like a normal human’s should.
Instead, we just…exist.
Comfortable.
I stretch my legs over his lap without thinking about it, and he absently starts rubbing circles into my calf with his thumb.
I should pull away.
I don’t.
At some point, I start giving my own running commentary about how the lead actress’s dress is both wildly impractical and secretly genius. He jumps in to defend the con artist's honor, attempting to equate him to Robin Hood. We start mock arguing over the morality of robbing billionaires, and I tell him he’s clearly been breathing the fumes from too many tour buses if he thinks this many explosions are realistic.
Halfway through the second half, I realize I’m leaning fully into his side. My head on his shoulder. His arm around me. Like we do this all the time.
Like wearea real couple.
I should feel weird about that.
I don’t.
I feel safe. Warm. Like the tension that’s been curling in my chest since the dawn of time is finally loosening.
The movie ends.
I don’t move right away. Neither does he.
“Thanks,” I say softly. “For the pivot. I needed that.”
