“Extremely.” She paused. “But no, Ledger. You’re not the disappointment.”
I let out my breath.
“You’re just,” she continued softly, “the unexpected option.”
Something warm flickered under my ribs at that, something I refused to name.
She let out a breath, the mattress shifting slightly beneath her. “If anything …” Her voice tightened. “I’ll be the disappointment. Like always.”
Her words were more vulnerable than I expected—not dramatic, not self-pitying, just honest.Toohonest. And somehow it made something in my chest twist sharply, because she seemed to really believe that. Maybe because her parents had trained her to. Or maybe because she’d learned to preemptively blame herself before anyone else had the chance. And now she’d married me—the very definition ofnottheir world.
But before I could respond, she was moving on. “Do you think your parents will like me?” Her voice sounded smaller in the dark. Or maybe just unguarded.
I wasn’t ready for vulnerable. Especially not today. I’d had enough out-of-body experiences today to last me a lifetime.
“I think,” I said, putting on my smug voice, the one I knew she didn’t like, “they’ll want to know if you make me miserable.”
She let out a huff of air. “And do I?” Even though I couldn’t see her, I knew she’d rolled her eyes.
“Constantly.”
“Good.” She chuckled. “And ditto.”
We fell quiet again, but it wasn’t the same kind of quiet as before. This one felt significant, somehow. A humming, tentative connection taking shape in the dark.
I stared at the pillow wall between us—the fuzzy, ridiculous monument to boundaries—and let the truth settle in.
We were married.
We’d signed papers.
We moved in.
We were sharing a bedroom.
Sharing abed.
And somehow, in the span of an hour, we’d had more real conversation than in all the years we’d known each other.
“We’re insane,” Roxie murmured.
“Completely,” I agreed.
Another beat of silence passed.
“What have we done?” she whispered.
I swallowed. “Something we can’t undo.”
She didn’t respond right away, but I heard the way her breath caught, just faintly.
And for a moment, in the quiet of our very small, very married bedroom, it felt like we were suspended in something fragile and unspoken. Something that scared me more than World Trials ever could.
Eventually her breathing steadied. Softened. Drifted.
And before I fell asleep too, one last thought flickered through my mind—not panicked, not resigned. Just stunned.
That was the first real conversation we’ve ever had.
