Then her breathing changed.
Roxie went still.
I felt the exact second awareness snapped into place—her body tensing, her arm stiffening against my chest.
“Oh my—” She jerked back like she’d been burned, dragging her arm away and scrambling upright. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—I must have moved in my sleep.”
I propped myself up on an elbow, unable to resist the slow, lazy grin spreading across my face. “Wow.”
She shot me a look. “Don’t.”
“You like feeling me up in my sleep?” I asked mildly. “Good to know.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You are absolutely unbearable first thing in the morning.”
“And you drool,” I said. “We all have flaws.”
“I do not drool.”
“Mm,” I hummed. “Debatable.”
She grabbed the pillow and smacked me square in the chest with it before stalking out of bed. “Get ready. We’re leaving in forty minutes.”
I watched her disappear into the bathroom, pulse still racing, chest oddly light.
Yeah. Unbearable.
We got ready in tense, overlapping silence, the kind that wasn’t hostile so much as carefully neutral. Roxie moved through the apartment with purpose. Her curly hair was down, and she’d thrown on a simple, knee-length navy dress, nothing flashy, but it hugged her just enough to be distracting. I caught her checking her reflection twice, and my jaw tightened each time.
I didn’t comment. Although she looked beautiful.
As we drove, I couldn’t help thinking about how odd it was that I was going to Roxie’s childhood home to meet her parents—not just to meet them, but to introduce myself as her husband.
“You don’t have to answer every question.” Her eyes were fixed on the road. “Short answers are safer.”
“Good thing I’m known for my restraint,” I replied.
She sighed. “Ledger.”
“I’m kidding.”
“You say that, but?—”
“I know,” I cut in. “No politics. No commentary on the house. No jokes about generational wealth.”
Her lips twitched despite herself. “Thank you.” She glanced at me, then back to the road. “Just … if my mom gets sharp, don’t bite back.”
“What if she deserves it?”
“She always deserves it,” Roxie said quietly. “That’s not the point.”
Something in her tone made me look at her properly this time.
Her shoulders were tense. Her fingers drummed a steady rhythm on her thigh. The earlier sharpness had faded, replaced by something brittle and raw underneath.
Anxiety. The kind that ran deep.
“You okay?” I asked.
