“I can.” I pull open the closet. The doors creak like they haven’t been oiled since the building went up. Inside: a row of scrubs, two pairs of jeans, a few shirts, one black dress that looks like it’s been worn twice, maybe for a funeral.
She makes a strangled sound. “Stop that!”
I pull a hanger free and look at it. The fabric’s thin, cheap cotton. I hold it up between two fingers. “You wear this to work?”
She glares at me. “You breaking into my closet now? Wasn’t my house enough?”
“You’re supposed to represent me.” I push aside another set of clothes, half expecting to find drugs, weapons, anything that could tell me more about her brother. Nothing. Just a folded blanket, a pair of old sneakers, and a shoebox full of what looks like photographs.
I reach for it, and she lunges forward. “Don’t touch that!”
Her voice cracks, and for the first time it isn’t fear but something closer to instinct, raw and protective. I look down at her hand on my wrist, small and shaking yet steady enough to hold on. Most people wouldn’t have dared.
“Careful,” I say quietly.
She pulls back like I burned her. “Those are mine.”
“I figured.” I set the box back and close the door. “Relax, I’m not interested in your childhood memories.”
She’s breathing hard, trying to keep up with me but not understanding why I’m still here. I should leave, but curiosity is an old habit I can’t kill. I crouch and pull open the drawer beneath the closet. Socks. Underwear. A few cheap lace pieces mixed with plain cotton. My hand moves automatically, sorting, checking for anything she could wear. Her breath catches when I lift one of the lacy pairs and raise an eyebrow.
She rushes forward and slams the drawer shut, face red. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Just checking,” I say, straightening.
“My underwear?”
“I need to know what I’m dealing with.”
Her jaw tightens. “You’re disgusting.”
“Probably,” I say, and I mean it.
The silence stretches between us, and she’s trembling, though it isn’t just fear anymore. Anger starts to move through her, gathering the way a storm does over open water, slow and tense and almost beautiful if you know what you’re looking at.
“This isn’t funny,” she says finally. “You think you can just walk into someone’s life and?—”
“I’m not thinking,” I interrupt. “I’m deciding. There’s a difference.”
I walk to her dresser next. A few folded shirts, one pair of jeans that looks newer, a cheap bottle of perfume half-empty. I uncap it and take a brief sniff and the scent that hits me is sweet and innocent. Completely wrong for her now.
I put it back. “We’ll fix all this tomorrow.”
Her confusion turns to disbelief. “Fix what?”
“The clothes, the attitude, the everything.” I glance at her. “If you’re going to stand next to me, you’ll look the part.”
She stares at me, crossing her arms. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”
“They’re… too simple.” I lean against the wall, pretending to think.
Her brows shoot up. “Too simple? I’m a nurse, not a runway model.”
“You’re my fiancée now,” I say, straightening a little. “Different job description.”
She lets out a dry laugh and gestures toward herself. “Right. The fake fiancée.”
“Still counts,” I say, meeting her eyes.
