THE MOVE

The next morning, the weight of last night's conversation settled in for good.

Mark and I had agreed to this plan and mapped it out logically, but now came the part where we had to actually do it. There was no avoiding the reality of what was about to happen—no more pretending it wasn't a big deal, because it was.

It wasn't just a week of playing house in front of Nate. It was a week of forced proximity. A week of no longer having the escape of my own space, my own room, at the other end of the house. A week of acting like I belonged beside Mark in every sense of the word.

I didn't regret agreeing to it. Mark needed this, and I'd made my choice.

But as I stared at the open suitcase on my bed, debating where to even start packing, the reality of it all truly hit me.

This was happening.

My door creaked open slightly, and I turned to find Mark leaning against the frame, arms crossed. His expression was unreadable, but his usual ease was missing.