Page 190 of Override

I push the blankets away and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. My feet touch the floor, and I look down at myself.

Black leggings.

My old band T-shirt. I run my hand over the faded design. The shirt is at least ten years old. Probably closer to twelve. The fabric has become so thin over the years that I should have thrown it away long before Ronan decided to do it for me.

Except I loved it.

I still love it. I stand and make it halfway toward the door before stopping. Keaton is talking to someone. What if someone came over? My eyes drop to my clothes again. Maybe I should change.

The thought comes so naturally that I already have one hand on the hem of my shirt before I realize what I'm doing.

I look toward the box sitting near the wall. My dress from last night is in there. I could—No.

My hand slowly falls away.

The memory of Keaton's face when I opened that box comes back to me. He'd watched me pull out every piece of clothing as though seeing me happy about an old sweatshirt was somehow the most important thing happening in the world. He'd saved these clothes. Washed them. Folded them. Kept them.

I don't think Keaton cares what I'm wearing. The realization feels bigger than it should. I look down at the shirt again.

No. That's not quite right.

I think he cares very much. I think he cares whether I want to wear it.

My throat tightens unexpectedly.

God.

How low had the bar become that someone allowing me to wear my own clothes felt like an act of kindness?

I push the thought away before it can ruin the first morning I've woken up without wondering what mood my husband is in.

My husband. The word stops me. I stand in the middle of the bedroom for a long moment. I don't know what happens now.

Last night had been about getting away.

There hadn't been time to think about anything beyond that. One moment I'd been standing in the garage, and the next I'd been running through the darkness with my hand in Keaton's.

Then there had been the safe house. The box. His team.

Keaton sleeping on the floor beside my bed.

But today...Today, I have to think.

I don't want to. Not yet. I leave the bedroom before the thoughts can follow me any further.

The house is warmer than the bedroom, and I follow the sound of Keaton's voice down the hallway.

As I get closer, I realize there isn't anyone else here. He's on the phone. I slow my steps. Not because I'm trying to listen.

At least, that's what I tell myself.

"No, Callum."

A pause.

I stop.

Keaton's voice carries clearly from the kitchen. "I'm aware of what I did." Another pause. "No. That's not what I said."