You’ve already smoothed your dress three times… in the last minute. And apparently that’s not enough, because your fingers go right back to the fabric, brushing away imaginary dust like your life depends on it.

Carlton notices.

Of course he does. Carlton always notices everything — except, apparently, how terrifying meeting someone’s mother can be when that someone is Carlton Lassiter, head detective, human embodiment of authority, and your boyfriend.

“You’re going to wipe the color off that dress if you keep doing that,” he mutters beside you, voice low and teasing. His hand barely brushes your elbow, a small touch meant to ground you.

You freeze mid-dusting. “I just… want to make a good impression.”

“You will.” He says it with the same certainty he uses when stating the caliber of a handgun or identifying a suspect from fifty yards away. “You’re wonderful. My mother is going to like you.”

You dust your dress again anyway.

Carlton exhales through his nose — not annoyed, just amused — and gently catches your hand before it can return to its favorite activity. “Hey.” His thumb runs over your knuckles. “Breathe.”