Marlowe
King found me in the garage a few evenings later, considerably later than I usually worked, and I looked up from the project I'd been using as an excuse to avoid the wedding planning chaos still unfolding across every surface of our shared home.
"You've been hiding," he observed, settling onto the stool across from me.
"I haven't been hiding. I've been working."
"You've been avoiding the fabric swatches Nova left scattered across our entire kitchen table for three days straight." His tone stayed gentle, no real accusation in it, just careful, patient concern. "Talk to me. What's actually going on?"
I set down my tools, understanding I couldn't keep deflecting indefinitely. "I don't know how to explain it properly," I admitted. "I want this wedding. I want you, completely, more
