Page 207 of Override

Last night, he'd been entirely in black. This morning, he's wearing jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves pushed up his forearms.

He looks almost normal. Then he suggests performing reconnaissance on my childhood home, and the illusion disappears. My mouth curves.

His eyes flick toward me. "What?"

"Nothing."

"You keep doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Looking at me and smiling without explanation."

"I don't owe you an explanation for every smile."

"That's true."

I wait for him to argue. He doesn't. His attention returns to the road. My smile grows.

There is something incredibly unsettling about being around a man who accepts my answer the first time I give it.

I'm still adjusting. I tug at the cuff of the sweatshirt again.

Keaton glances down.

He'd been disappointed when I first came out of the bedroom wearing my dress from last night. I hadn't understood his expression.

I'd stopped in the hallway and looked down at myself, immediately checking for wrinkles or stains. "What?"

He'd stared at me. "Nothing."

"You're making a face."

"I make a lot of faces, according to you."

"Do I not look okay?"

The question had changed something in him.

He'd crossed the hallway toward me, then stopped before touching me. "You look beautiful."

I'd waited. His brows had pulled together as though he was trying to solve a problem.

"You would look beautiful wearing a trash bag, although I wouldn't recommend it. Plastic lacks ventilation."

I'd laughed.

He hadn't. "But I want you to enjoy wearing that dress."

My laughter had faded.

Keaton had glanced down at it before meeting my eyes again. "Not because it's the only thing you have available. Not because it's what you wore when you left. Wear it again when you choose it."

So I'd turned around. I'd gone back into the bedroom, dug through the box he'd saved, and found my jeans. Then I found this sweatshirt. I stood in front of the mirror for a long time holding it.

Now I wonder if Keaton knew why I'd chosen it.

Probably.