“No,” I say. I swallow the lump in my throat. “I just don’t want you to surprise me. What’s next? Did you already buy us a house?” “I wouldn’t do that.” “You did this.” “Beckett,” he starts. I bite my lip. Sometimes he’ll call me Beckett in bed if he’s feeling serious. Usually, he doesn’t bother with it when we’re arguing. Instead of deferential, it feels like a reprimand, like a parent calling their child by their full name. “What?” I snap. “We’ve spoken about this before, and you went and did it anyway.” “I wasn’t trying to keep anything from you.” “But you did!”
