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"Does this have anything to do with the matchmaking thing?" he asks.

The question isn't accusatory. It's practical. Like he's been assembling information and has reached a reasonable conclusion.

I hadn't realized how closely he'd been paying attention, which is on me.

"Yes," I say.

Honesty is less risky than evasion. Children notice gaps in logic faster than adults.

His shoulders stiffen.

"I don't want a stranger in our house," he says. "Or in our lives."

That's the first real resistance.

I recognize it as a boundary, not a tantrum.

"This isn't about a stranger," I say, defaulting to reassurance instead of inquiry. "It's about someone we already know. Someone I trust."

That gives him pause.

Not relief. Consideration.

Henry turns that over quietly, then looks up at me again.

"Who?" he asks.

I don't answer immediately.

Not because I'm conflicted—but because I'm careful.

Once a name is spoken, there’s no way to pretend this is theoretical.

"You like Lindsay, don't you?" I say instead.

His reaction is immediate and unguarded.

His eyes brighten, posture lifting.

"Lindsay?" he asks. "She's coming back to work?"

I hesitate. Evelyn made it very clear.

"No."

The word comes out too quickly.

"She's not going to be my employee."

Henry frowns, confused now. Processing.

"Then what—"

"I'm not sure," I say. "But she might be spending more time with us. In a different capacity."

I hate how vague that sounds. How insufficient.

Henry stares at me, piecing it together.