Judge Morrison reviewed the documents with her usual sharp attention, but something in her expression had softened. When she looked at us over her reading glasses, I could have sworn I saw approval.
“The court is pleased with the progress shown,” she said. “Ms. Santos, Mr. Murphy, you’ve created a stable, nurturing environment for this child. That’s no small accomplishment given the circumstances.”
Riley’s hand tightened on mine. I squeezed back.
“I’m granting continued custody with a clear path to permanency.” Judge Morrison made a note in her file. “One more review in sixty days. Assuming no significant changes, we’ll finalize the arrangement.”
Sixty days. Two months. And then Mia would be Riley’s—really and truly and legally—forever.
I looked at Riley, at the tears she was trying to blink back, at the way she was holding herself together through sheer force of will. Looked at Mia, who had grabbed Riley’s other hand, who was grinning for the first time in a courtroom.
And I thought:I want to marry her for real.
Not for custody. Not for the ranch. Not for any of the practical reasons that had brought us here.
I want to give her a wedding she actually remembers. One where she’s not wearing a borrowed dress and signing papers in a judge’s office. I want to watch her walk toward me and know she’s choosing me, choosing this life, choosing to stay.
I want everything.
The thought should have terrified me. Six months ago, it would have.
Now it just felt true.
Todd was waiting in the parking lot.
He stood between us and our truck, arms crossed, that smile on his face that I’d learned to hate. The one that said he knew something we didn’t. The one that had probably preceded every blow he’d ever landed on Riley, on her mother, on anyone unlucky enough to be in his path.
“Think you’ve won?”
His voice carried across the asphalt. Riley went rigid beside me. Mia pressed closer, her hand finding the back of my jacket.
I stepped forward, putting myself between him and my family. Not as Riley’s fake husband. Not as part of an arrangement. As a man protecting the people he loved.
“Walk away, Todd.”
“Or what?” He laughed, but there was something unhinged in it. Something desperate. “You’ll call the cops? Get another restraining order? Those have been real effective so far.”
“You’re in violation of the existing order right now.” I kept my voice calm, steady—the voice I used on fire scenes, when panic was the enemy and control was everything. “You’re not supposed to be within five hundred feet of Riley or Mia.”
“Funny thing about those orders.” Todd took a step closer. “They’re just paper. Paper doesn’t stop anything.”
Riley moved beside me, her phone already in her hand. “I’m calling 911.”
“Go ahead.” Todd’s eyes never left mine. “By the time they get here, we’ll have had our conversation.”
“There’s no conversation to have.” I held my ground, kept my body between him and Riley.
He moved forward, one hand reaching toward Riley, and I reacted on instinct.
I didn’t throw a punch. Didn’t give him what he wanted—the excuse to claim self-defense or provocation. I just stepped into his path, caught his wrist before he could touch her, and held firm.
“Don’t.”
Todd tried to pull free. Couldn’t.I’d spent years hauling hose and carrying equipment and working ranch land. He’d spent years drinking, collecting disability, and letting his body go soft.
It wasn’t a contest.
“Let go of me.” His voice rose, attracting attention from people crossing the parking lot. “Help! He’s attacking me! Someone call?—”
