Chapter Twenty-Three The One Where He Tells Her
Rhys
LINDA WAS ASLEEP on the couch, cocooned in the blanket she’d fought with an hour ago and eventually made peace with. It was bunched under one arm and half-draped over her legs like it had lost the war but won a truce. Her hair was a glorious disaster. One sock—banana-print—had somehow ended up on the coffee table. And her mouth was open just enough to snore like a small, judgmental woodland creature.
Rhys watched her like a man who didn’t quite believe any of this was real .
He should have gone to bed. Or finished writing the place cards. Or returned his mom’s seventh voicemail (which had featured the phrase “signature cocktail options” and the alarming implication that she’d already booked a jazz trio).
Instead, he sat beside her with a glass of water in one hand and a heart stuffed full of unsent confessions.
The living room was quiet. Golden. Safe. The kind of quiet that dared you to speak the truth aloud just to hear what it sounded like.
“You know,” he whispered, voice barely louder than the hum of the fridge, “we actually met before the alarm clock incident.”
No response.
Sir Stumps-a-Lot, curled at her feet like a judgmental throw pillow, opened one eye.
“Six months before, to be exact,” Rhys said. “You yelled at the copier on the third floor. Said it was conspiring with the vending machine in a hostile snack coup.”
Still nothing from Linda.
Stumps blinked once. Lazy. Knowing.
“I thought you were terrifying. And also really, really cute.”
He looked down at his glass, watching condensation slide down the side like time he couldn’t get back .
“I tried to talk to you once at the holiday party,” he murmured. “You complimented my blazer, and I panicked and said, ‘Thanks, it has sleeves.’”
He winced at the memory. “You laughed for ten seconds and then walked away. I replayed it for weeks .”
Linda shifted, just enough to bump her foot against his knee. Still asleep. Maybe dreaming. Rhys wasn’t sure if he hoped she was dreaming of him or just... not dreaming of leaving.
“I never dated Micah,” he said. “He’s a real guy. But I made that part up. Because you said you ruined the beard thing, and I couldn’t bring myself to say, ‘Actually, I’ve just had a crush on you since you told the office microwave it would never be loved. And I’d go along with almost anything to date you.”
The blanket shifted.
Linda’s eyes cracked open, sleep-heavy and blinking. “... you what now?” she mumbled.
Rhys froze.
She blinked again, sitting up with a groggy squint. “Did you just say you knew me before The Collision?”
He cleared his throat. “Possibly.”
“And that you faked an entire ex because you didn’t know how to flirt with someone who verbally abuses small appliances?”
He nodded, sheepish. “That is…an accurate summary.”
Linda stared at him for a beat longer than was comfortable.
Then she let her head fall back on the couch cushion with a groan. “You absolute disaster. I cannot believe I’m marrying you in six months.”
Rhys smiled. Couldn’t help it. “Technically, it’s five months and twenty-nine days. It’s past midnight.”
Linda groaned louder. “Ugh. Worse. ”
But she shifted closer anyway, arm nudging his. And Rhys, helpless fool that he was, tucked his arm around her shoulders without thinking.
She melted into him like she’d done it a thousand times .
Like she’d never want to stop.
Rhys kissed her temple. Gentle. Grateful.
“Hey,” she whispered. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”
“I was scared.”
Linda looked up at him, eyes softer now, drowsy but sharp. “Me too.”
Sir Stumps-a-Lot sighed from the foot of the couch like a corgi who had seen it all. Possibly orchestrated half of it.
Rhys let out a breath that felt like he’d been holding it for months.
“I love you, you know,” he said quietly, like a secret too important to raise his voice for.
Linda didn’t freeze this time.
She just nodded. “I know.”
Then she closed her eyes again and leaned her head on his shoulder, like it had always belonged there.
And Rhys?
Rhys stayed perfectly still, holding the moment like it was something sacred.
Because it was.