Page 8 of Claimed By The Other Brother

"I'm fine." He squeezes my hand but still won't meet my eyes.

"Just work stress. And wedding stress. It's a lot."

It's a lot. That's what we're calling it now?

"Do you want to grab lunch?" I ask, changing the subject.

"We could walk down to that sandwich place you like. Get out of the apartment for a bit."

He checks his watch.

"Actually, yeah. That sounds good. Let me just..." He pulls out his phone, frowning at the screen.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just checking something." He types a quick message, then pockets the phone.

"Okay, yeah. Let's go eat."

I change quickly into jeans and a sweater while Miles waits on the couch. When I emerge from the bedroom, he's staring at the garment bag with my wedding dress inside and he has an unreadable expression.

"What are you thinking?" I ask.

He startles slightly. "Is that the dress?"

"Yeah. But you can’t see it,” I say.

“It’s bad luck. You have to wait until Saturday,” I say with a smile.

"Right. Saturday." He stands abruptly.

"Should we go?"

The shift in his energy is palpable. Whatever he was thinking about while staring at that garment bag, it wasn't pleasant.

We leave the apartment and walk down to the elevator. The afternoon has turned cooler, and I'm glad for my leather jacket. Miles walks beside me, hands still in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched.

"Let's just walk," he suggests once we're outside.

"There's a place a few blocks from here. Italian deli."

"Sounds perfect."

We fall into step together, navigating the crowded sidewalk. On weekends, this neighborhood is always busy—young professionals grabbing brunch, families heading to the park, tourists consulting maps on their phones.

Miles and I have walked these streets dozens of times over the past three years. We have our favorite coffee shop, our favorite Thai restaurant, our favorite bar for trivia night. We've built a life together in this city.

So why does it feel like we're walking next to each other instead of with each other?

***

The Italian deli is warm and crowded, filled with the scent of fresh bread and marinara sauce. We manage to snag a small table by the window after ordering at the counter. Miles gets his usual—turkey and provolone on focaccia. I order the caprese panini.

"So," I say once we're seated with our sandwiches and drinks.

"Tell me about your week. We've barely talked."

He takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully.