Chapter 2: The Phone Call Revelation

Even when I put on my new Victoria’s Secret pajamas, he barely reacted.

I bought them just for him—soft blush silk, a hint of lace, the kind of thing that used to make him drop his phone. Now he just glanced up, cleared his throat, and buried himself in whatever paperback he’d grabbed from the nightstand.

Even if I chased him into his office—and trust me, the evidence was clear he was interested—he just kept typing, ignoring me.

I’m not oblivious. I saw the way he shifted in his chair, the death grip on his coffee mug. But he wouldn’t even look at me.

But now, I finally got my answer.

Turns out, he’s still worried that my body isn’t back to normal yet.

I nearly burst into tears.

A lump formed in my throat. All this time, I’d thought he was pushing me away. Turns out, he was just... waiting. For me. For us.

My husband is honestly a keeper.

I wanted to blast it on Instagram, shout it from the rooftop, maybe even make a TikTok about it. Instead, I hugged my pillow and let myself feel truly grateful for once.

Sometimes, loving him feels like my heart’s trying to break out of my chest. Even if my memory’s a mess, I know this much: Mason is where I belong.

After the call ended, Mason Callahan turned and saw me. He froze, lips pressed together, shoulders tensed like he was waiting for a scolding.

He looked like a kid caught sneaking cookies—wide-eyed, guilty. I almost cracked up at how obvious he was.

"When did you get here? How much did you hear?"

His voice was rough, defensive, eyes darting. I could see the worry flickering there, like he was bracing for a fight he didn’t want.

I answered softly, "Mason, since I left the hospital, it must’ve been hard for you to hold back, right?"

I tried to keep my tone light, teasing, but my heart was pounding. I wanted him to know I understood, that I wasn’t mad anymore.

A flash of something cold flickered in his eyes. He repeated, "How do you know I’m holding back?"

His jaw tightened, and he shifted, looking everywhere but at me. His hand slid downward, fidgeting with the hem of his t-shirt, like he needed something to do with his hands.

As he spoke, his hand moved lower, almost like he was about to grab something—or maybe just shield himself from embarrassment.

I glanced down, following his movement.

Oh.

His jeans were way too tight.

Ha.

Men really are easy to fluster.

It took everything I had not to smirk. The little thrill of power was addictive.