Riley's eye twitches. Just barely, but I catch it.
"Now, physical proximity is crucial." Hazel stands and begins demonstrating on an invisible partner—a hand placed on an imaginary shoulder, a lean-in suggesting intimate conversation. "Casual touches. Meaningful glances. Standing just slightly closer than colleagues normally would."
This is my life now. Getting coached on fake romance like a contact sport.
"Exactly how much physical contact are we expected to display?" Riley's voice carries the strain of someone holding it together through sheer force of will.
"Nothing dramatic." Hazel waves a hand. "We'reaiming for 'couple comfortable with each other but respectful in public settings.' Think established relationship rather than new romance."
The irony isn't lost on me. We're supposed to fake an established relationship when twenty-four hours ago, we couldn't have a conversation without it turning into a shouting match.
"Let me show you the venue." Hazel pulls up photos on their tablet—stone columns, wooden beams, river views. "Riverside Park Pavilion. The architecture provides perfect framing for intimate moments, and the water backdrop tests beautifully for romantic shots."
Riley flinches at "intimate moments." Her jaw tightens in a way I'm starting to recognize as her default stress response.
This whole situation is costing her more than it's costing me. My reputation can survive being seen as the charming guy who dates his colleague. Hers—built on being taken seriously in a field that doesn't always welcome women—is taking a direct hit.
"Why don't we practice somewhere more private first?" The suggestion comes out before I fully think it through. "Riley, could we use your lab? Away from potential audiences?"
Her eyebrows rise slightly. Surprise, maybe, that I'd consider her comfort.
Hazel's eyes light up. "Yes! Perfect. Get comfortable with the dynamic before going public. Love it."
Riley pauses, then nods stiffly. "Fine. The lab should be empty this morning."
Twenty minutes later, I'm following her through corridors lined with warnings about chemical hazards and evidence protocols. She moves with purpose here—shoulders relaxing incrementally the deeper we go into her professional territory.
Her access card beeps, and the door swings open to reveal something I'm not expecting.
The investigation lab stretches before us like a scientific sanctuary. Sterile white walls lined with equipment that belongs in a research university, not a municipal building. High-powered microscopes. Chemical analysis stations. Evidence lockers arranged with military precision. Everything organized with the kind of meticulous attention that speaks to both expertise and—if I'm being honest—a touch of obsession.
"This is incredible." The words escape before I can stop them.
Riley glances back, and something in her expression shifts. Less guarded. Almost pleased. "Mostpeople don't realize how sophisticated arson investigation has become."
She moves toward one of the analysis stations with fluid confidence—completely different from the rigid woman who sat through Hazel's presentation like she was enduring a root canal.
"This gas chromatograph can identify accelerant traces at parts-per-million levels." Her hand brushes across the equipment with obvious affection. "We can determine not just what started a fire, but often where the accelerant was purchased. Sometimes even when."
I step closer, genuinely fascinated. This isn't the sharp-tongued investigator who accused me of posting thirst traps. This is someone who loves her work so deeply it transforms her.
"Evidence collection that looks random to most people follows very specific protocols." She pulls out a sample container, handling it with practiced precision. "Temperature patterns, burn trajectories, chemical residue analysis—it all builds a complete picture of what actually happened."
"Like reading a story no one else can see."
She looks up at that, green eyes sharp behind her glasses. "Exactly. Most people just see destruction. I see a narrative."
I didn't expect to respect her this much. Three years of working adjacent to Riley Pritchard, and I'd written her off as uptight, by-the-book, incapable of seeing past her precious protocols. Turns out I wasn't paying attention.
My gaze drifts to her desk—neat stacks of files, a high-end laptop, and tucked between case folders, a small, framed object that doesn't fit the clinical aesthetic. A vintage fire inspector badge, brass tarnished with age but still dignified.
"That was my father's." Her voice has gone quiet. Softer than I've ever heard it. "He always said evidence tells the truth when people won't."
The weight of that statement settles between us. No wonder she reacted so strongly to our staged relationship. Her entire career is built on objective truth, on evidence that can't be manipulated. Being asked to perform a lie—even a harmless one—probably feels like betraying everything she stands for.
"He was an inspector?"
"Thirty-two years with the department." She picks up the frame, thumb tracing across the glass. "Line-of-duty accident when I was twenty-five. I became an investigator because I wanted to follow his path, but I chose arson specifically because I liked the precision. Theobjectivity."
