We cleaned up in tandem after that, moving like we’d done this a hundred times. And I guess we had, just on our own. Motorsport was a traveling lifestyle, but doing this routine with him felt less like sacrifice and more like the language of living. Unpacking suitcases, throwing the laundry in, restocking the bathroom with our favorite things. He put his cologne on the shelf next to my perfume. I folded his shirts into the dresser next to my silk slips.
It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t loud. But it was real.
Thiswas the dream.
And when he crawled into bed beside me hours later, fresh from the shower, hair still damp, chest still warm—I let myself exhale.
And I was home in every sense of the word.
I was a fucking idiot.
It was supposed to be a slow morning. That’s what I told myself as I scrolled through my phone, sprawled out on our bed—ourbed—while the sunlight crept across the hardwood floors.
I’d been calm. Relaxed. At peace, even, because we were home and settling back into real life.
Until I realized what the hell was actually happening.
I watched Auri toss a pair of trainers into a duffel bag without even looking at me.
"You tricked me into meeting your family."
She didn’t even look up. "No, you just didn’t ask enough questions."
I sat up slowly. “That’s the same fucking thing.”
She hummed, smug and unbothered, humming along to whatever French indie song was playing over the kitchenspeaker as she added a pair of silk pajamas to the pile. “You’re helping me move the rest of my things from the estate.”
“And tell your parents we’re married,” I deadpanned.
She shrugged.
I narrowed my eyes. “Before the media catches wind and they find out in a tabloid headline?”
“Wouldn’t that be rude?” she asked sweetly. “Just because I’ve barely spoken to them doesn’t mean they deserve to find out their daughter is married from the press.”
I dragged a hand down my face. “So let me get this straight. You want me to carry boxes, charm your family, survive what will inevitably be an awkward dinner, and pretend I’m not losing my fucking mind every time I look at you. Especially when you’re doing domestic shit.”
She paused, finally looking up, amused. “Domestic shit?”
“Like dishes. Or laundry. Or walking around in that robe with wet hair and no bra on, pretending it’s normal.”
“Itisnormal.”
I stood up, crossing the room to crowd her space. “You know what that does to me.”
“I do,” she said softly, feigning innocence, eyes sparkling. “That’s why I do it.”
My hands slid around her waist, pulling her in until her chest brushed mine. She smelled like lavender and sin. I buried my face in her neck and groaned. “You’re going to ruin me.”
“I already have.”
God help me, she had. And I loved it.
I held her there for a moment, just breathing her in. Letting the quiet fill my chest, soften the edges of my nerves.
“Aurélie,” I murmured.
She pulled back, gaze holding mine. “Callum.”
