Sunday arrived... with the kind of clear-blue sky that felt almost cruel.
I stood in front of the bedroom mirror tugging at the hem of a soft cream dress, second-guessing every choice. Too formal. Too casual. Too much skin. Not enough armor. Behind me, John stepped out of the bathroom in dark jeans and a black button-down, sleeves already rolled to his elbows. He took one look at my face and crossed the room in three strides.
“Hey.” His hands settled on my waist, warm and steady. “Breathe.”
“What if she still hates you?” I whispered. “What if this dinner is just an ambush dressed up as olive branches?”
John’s thumbs stroked slow circles over my hips. “Then we leave. But I don’t think that’s what this is. Your mom called. She asked for both of us. That’s something.”
I turned in his arm
