Goose bumps spread down my arms, and I laugh quietly. “Whatcha doing?” I ask, my voice low, rough from sleep.
“Mmm,” she hums against my skin. “Maybe I need a little good luck.”
I chuckle, the sound vibrating in my chest. “Good luck, huh?”
She nods against me, still half under the blankets, still kissing a slow trail across my collarbone.
“First day of school,” she reminds me, a playfulness to her tone.
She tilts her head up, those blue eyes meeting mine, sleepy but mischievous.
I slide my hand around her waist, fingers brushing her bare skin as I pull her in closer. “You know I can’t say no to you when you look at me like that.”
“I know.” She smiles, smug and soft all at once.
I roll her gently onto her back, careful not to crush her, my thumb brushing along her jaw. Her hair fans across the pillow, her cheeks pink from sleep. I can feel her heartbeat beneath my palm, quick and steady.
“I think I can arrange some good luck,” I murmur, leaning in to kiss the corner of her mouth. Then another kiss, deeper, slower.
She exhales against me, her fingers threading into my hair. The world narrows to just this—her and me.
I brush a kiss to her forehead, then her nose, then her lips again.
Her hand slides to my shoulder, pulling me closer, stopping me from thinking about anything else—work, money stress, how early it is—and I let myself fall into her.
Chapter 17
Megan
School has been in full swing for a few days now, and I’m finally starting to feel like I’ve got a rhythm again. The forty-five-minute drive, the drop-off-line chaos, the buses, the early mornings. It’s all settling into place. My voice is already half gone from teaching procedures, and my feet hurt in that familiar way they do at the start of every year.
Meanwhile, Mason hasn’t been home on time once this week. Not unusual, but still…it wears on us. We’ve been talking about this coming weekend for days. He isn’t scheduled to work. A whole weekend where we can actually breathe, reconnect, and sleep in.
Mason’s mood’s been off since he walked through the door though. Not mad, justshort. Distracted. Like his mind’s somewhere far away and he doesn’t want me to follow him there.
I’d tried to keep the evening light. While I tossed a salad together, I told him about one of my second graders who tried to convince the class the sun is “just a big light bulb in the sky.” Normally, he’d laugh, toss in how he would’ve responded. Tonight, he just let out a quick laugh without even looking up from rinsing his hands.
When we sat down for dinner, I finally asked him.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” he said. Again…short.
I raised a brow. “Okay…you sure? Because you’ve barely said five words since you got home.”
He sighed through his nose. “Meg, I’m good.”
His tone felt like a knife, because I knew it was a lie.
“You’re not,” I muttered back.
He set his fork down, rubbing a hand over his face like I was exhausting him. “I’m tired. Can we not do this tonight?”
The words were fine. The tone was sharp. And it stung.
“Fine,” I muttered, stabbing at my chicken.
We cleaned up in silence after that. I stayed in the kitchen longer than necessary, pretending to reorganize the pantry just so I didn’t have to walk on eggshells around him again.
