“I’m not snooping, My fiance asked me to fetch him something,” I say, attempting a breezy tone. I continue to rustle through papers I care nothing about. The floorboard groans as he rises to his feet. I hate how hyper-aware I am of his presence, how I can feel every heavy footstep he takes toward me in my chest, like the beating of a drum. He leans his palms against the desk and looks up at me with hooded, lazy eyes. “Really?” One simple word, loaded like a gun. I swallow the lump in my throat. “Yes.”
