“That’s about the size of it.”
I look up at him. He’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite decode—calm on the surface, but something flickering underneath. Something that looks almost like…
“You’re not freaking out,” I realize.
“Panicking won’t unfile the paperwork.”
“No, I mean—” I study him more closely. “You’rereallynot freaking out. Most men would be halfway to Mexico by now.”
Tank shrugs, and the movement does unfair things to his shoulders. “Once had to defuse a bomb with a paper clip and a prayer.” His mouth curves. “This is just paperwork.”
That story can’t be true. A surprised laugh escapes me. “That’s… actually weirdly comforting?”
“Aim to please.”
I take a breath. Then another. Let the absurdity settle into something almost manageable.
“And your response to this situation is…?”
Tank looks at me for a long moment. Instead of heading for the door or calling a lawyer, he comes closer, stopping a few feet away. I tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
“My response,” he says quietly, “is that you’re not trapped. Whatever we decide, you’re not stuck here because of paperwork.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?” His gaze searches mine. “We can’t control the timeline. But we can control what we do with it.”
“Which is?”
“Make a plan. Handle what needs handling. Stop trying to solve thirty days in thirty minutes.”
I snort. “You sound like a motivational poster.”
“What can I say? It’s a gift.”
Something in my chest loosens. Not fixed—nothing about this is fixed—but… lighter. Like the weight has shifted from crushing to merely absurd.
“Fine,” I say, standing up. “You want to be practical? Let’s be practical. If we’re doing this accidental marriage, temporary cohabitation, bureaucratic nightmare thing, I have conditions.”
His eyebrow rises. “Is that right?”
“First, you’re not sleeping on that couch.” I point at the offending furniture. “You barely fit on it, and you’re shaped like a refrigerator.”
“I’m shaped like awhat?”
“A very attractive refrigerator.” I wave my hand dismissively. “The point is, we’re adults. We can share a bed without it being weird.”
The look he gives me suggests he hasthoughtsabout that. Thoughts that make heat prickle down my spine. Thoughts that probably involve what happened on Sunday night and what might happen if we share that bed.
“Anything else?” he asks, his voice rougher than before.
“Second, I reserve the right to rearrange your mugs.”
“Agreed.” He nods once, seemingly relieved. “Anything else?”
I should probably be treating this like a crisis, but standing here, wearing his flannel, looking at this man who just found out he’s accidentally my husband and responded withproblem-solving…
“Yeah,” I say. “The pancakes are getting cold. Crisis management makes me hungry.”
