“What if she asks if you guys are actually in love?”
Neither of us answered.
The silence stretched—thick, uncomfortable.
I glanced at Liam. He glanced back. We had nothing.
Mia rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck. She stabbed a piece of chicken with her fork. “You’re both terrible at this.” She sighed. “Fine. I’ll say you’re disgustingly happy and I wish you’d stop looking at each other all the time. That believable enough?”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Had no idea what to say to that.
Liam cleared his throat. “We? Looking at each other?”
“All the time,” Mia said flatly, in the tone of a twelve-year-old who had clearly noticed something the adults were still pretending not to see. “It’s gross. Very convincing.”
She went back to her dinner, leaving Liam and me to avoid each other’s eyes for the rest of the meal.
The evaluator arrived at nine the next morning.
Her name was Judith Crane, and she was every bit as intimidating as I’d imagined. Mid-fifties. Silver threaded through dark hair pulled back tight, not a strand out of place. Her eyes were sharp and unblinking, the kind that didn’t just look but recorded. Nothing slid past them unnoticed.
The moment she stepped inside, my body reacted before my mind did. Shoulders tight. Breath shallow. That old instinct—stand straight, give nothing away—settling deep in my bones.
Judith moved through the house with measured efficiency, clipboard tucked close, pen scratching softly as she went.
Every question was precise. Neutral. Delivered in a tone that revealed nothing about what she thought of the answers. No reassurance. No disapproval. Just collection.
I felt like evidence.
Every step she took seemed to narrow the room. Every note she made landed heavy in my chest. I tracked her movements without meaning to, cataloging my own space the way she did, suddenly aware of every imperfection—every corner that might be interpreted the wrong way.
This wasn’t a normal visit. It was a test. For both of us.
“Nice property,” she said, her gaze sweeping the living room, clinical and thorough. “How long have you lived here, Mr. Murphy?”
“My whole life.” Liam shoved his hands into his pockets, then pulled them out again, like he couldn’t decide where they belonged. “It’s been in my family for three generations.”
“And Ms. Santos, when did you move in?”
The question landed on me without warning. I straightened, fingers curling once at my side before I answered.
“About a month ago. After we got married.”
Judith glanced down at her clipboard, pen moving in a short line. No reaction.
“I’d like to see the master bedroom.”
My stomach tightened.
The bedroom—the one place where the seams showed if you looked too closely. Where my life had been set beside Liam’s and arranged to resemble something cohesive instead of hurried.
I gestured down the hall, already moving, forcing my steps to stay even.
She took her time once inside. Counted without counting. Two pillows on the bed. The spacing between them. The bathroom sink—his razor, my toothbrush, aligned but nottouching. Her gaze lingered just long enough to make my pulse stutter.
Then the closet.
She opened the door, eyes scanning the row of Liam’s shirts and jackets. The empty half beside them. Her pen paused midair.
