The door opened without warning, the latch clicking sharply against the wall, and the hallway light poured in with no regard for the intimacy we had not yet even touched. Standing there was Franklin Morgan, Caleb’s father, holding a pillow and a neatly folded blanket as if he were checking into a room he had reserved in advance. His posture was stiff, his expression unreadable, and his presence filled the space in a way that made my chest tighten immediately.
“I will sleep here tonight,” Franklin said calmly, as if announcing the weather.
For a moment, my mind refused to process his words. I waited for him to smile, to laugh, to explain that this was some strange joke. I looked at Caleb, expecting him to step forward, to block the doorway, to say something firm and final. Instead, he hesitated, his eyes flickering with discomfort rather than outrage.
“It is a family custom,” Caleb said carefully. “It is meant to protect the marriage.”
