“I need you there,” he continues, his voice softer now. “We can sneak you in and out if you want, I just... I need you by my side, dollface. This whole thing—” he gestures vaguely toward the house, the driveway, “—only works if it looks real.”
I arch an eyebrow, letting the silence stretch between us. He knows what he’s asking, and he knows what it costs me to show up and pretend with strangers watching.
“I know it’s a lot. Fuck, I know it’s unfair,” he says quickly, stepping in front of me, eyes searching mine. His hands hover, as if he wants to reach for me, but doesn’t. “But I’ll owe you. I mean it. I’ll owe you the moon.”
He runs a hand through his hair, pacing a little, the heel of his palm dragging across his jaw in frustration.
“You want me to run shirtless through downtown? I’ll do it,” he says, throwing his arms out.
He finally stops pacing, facing me fully, his voice softer now, urgent and pleading. “Please.”
I realize he’s no longer joking. There’s something deeper in his expression now—earnestness, nerves, maybe even fear.
I sigh, running my fingers through my hair.
“Okay, husband.”
Oh God.
It slips out so fast, so casually, I barely register it until the air shifts.
Maverick freezes, then slowly and dramatically grins.
“What was that?” His eyes are wide, but his voice is full of mischief.
“Don’t make it a thing,” I mutter, already regretting it.
“Oh, it’s a thing,” he says, a devilish grin spreading across his face as he takes a step back, giving himself just enough space.
With a dramatic flourish, he flexes both arms, his bicepsbulging beneath the snug sleeves of his T-shirt. The cotton stretches across his shoulders, pulling tight over his muscles.
He turns in a slow, exaggerated circle, showing off his massive arms.
“Damn right I’m your husband,” he says, smirking over his shoulder at me, one brow raised, his voice a perfect blend of cocky and playful.
“You’re my fake husband,” I deadpan, but I can’t help the flicker of a smile tugging at my lips.
He gasps dramatically, clutching his chest like I just stabbed him. “That hurt, dollface, wounded me right in my husband soul.”
I roll my eyes, fighting the smile dancing on my lips.
“She called me husband,” he sings quietly. “Gonna engrain that in my memory forever.”
“Please don’t.”
“Too late.”
Despite everything —my uprooted life, the knot in my stomach, and the fear I refuse to admit—I let myself laugh.
Just once.
And of course, Maverick hears it.
Nightmares comeand go about my past; it’s nothing new to me.
I don’t remember how the nightmare begins. It never gives a warning. One second, I’m somewhere vaguely safe, and the next, I’m suffocating.
“You always ruin things.”
