The Job Interview
The alarm went off at five forty-five, and Mia's hand shot out from under the covers before the second beep, slamming the phone face-down against the nightstand. Beside her, Adrian didn't stir. He never did. The man could sleep through a fire drill, but the moment she so much as breathed wrong, his eyes snapped open like a soldier on watch.
"You're doing the thing," he mumbled into his pillow, voice gravel-rough with sleep.
"What thing?"
"The pre-panic breathing. In through the nose, held for four seconds, out like you're blowing out birthday candles." He rolled over, one arm draped across her waist, tugging her back down against the mattress she'd been trying to escape. "It's five forty-five, Mia. Nobody needs to be that afraid of a Tuesday."
"I'm not afraid." She was terrified. "I'm prepared."
"You've laid out three different blazers on the chair. That's not preparation. That's a crisis."
She swatted his arm, but he only tightened his hold, and for a moment—just a moment—she let herself stay there, tucked against his chest, listening to the slow, steady drum of his heart. Eight months of marriage and this was still the part that undid her: the quiet before the world…