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The title lands like a slap. My breath hitches, just for a second.

Fake, I whisper to myself. Fake fiancée. Like saying it again will keep it from cutting so deep.

But then my eyes drift—of course they do—to the bookshelf behind him. To that photo. That long-ago birthday party. Maggie front and center, hair wild and joy blazing in her smile. Merc, half toothless and laughing like the world was still good. Maddox, mid-eye roll. Henry with frosting smeared on his chin, cheeks still round with boyhood.

And wedged between them—me.

Pale hair, wide-eyed, that stupid soft smile like I didn’t know better. Like I didn’t know how fast things fall apart. Staring up at Henry like he was something permanent. Like the world made sense and love was something that stayed.

That girl…she didn’t know a damn thing.

She didn’t know how love could gut you. Didn’t know that sometimes it meant stepping back from the one thing you wanted most. That one day, she’d wake up with empty arms and an even emptier womb and learn to pretend it didn’t matter.

My hand drifts to my stomach. Automatically. Reflex. Like I’m checking to see if the hollow is still there.

It is.

Always is.

I press harder than I mean to—trying to ground myself, trying to breathe around the swell of grief that never really fades, just hides better on some days. This isn’t the time. Not now. Not in front of him.

Dallas is still watching me, eyes narrowed—not scared, not curious. Just…measuring. Like he’s already learned how to spot the bullshit. Like he’s wondering what kind of lie this is, and how long it’ll take to fall apart.

So I square my shoulders. Swallow everything that’s clawing its way up. And I give him what I’ve always given the world when it tries to look too close⁠—

Nothing.

I can bleed later.

I turn my attention to his caseworker, and for a moment, I’m caught off guard by the warmth in her smile. It’s genuine—the kind that reaches her eyes—and somehow, that softens something in me.

She’s younger than I expected, probably not much younger than me. Kind eyes, long black hair pulled into a loose braid that’s falling over her shoulder, and a figure that most women would kill for—full hips, soft curves, the kind of body that turns heads without even trying. And yet, she’s wrapped up tight in a massive knit cardigan, like she’s hoping it might make her invisible.

I’ve never understood that.

Why hide something so beautiful? If I had curves like that, I wouldn’t bury them under layers—I’d wear them like armor.

Henry steps in like he always does, smoothing the edges of the moment without breaking it. He gestures everyone toward the living room. The shuffle that follows is quiet, stiff. No one wants to sit too close. No one wants to be the first to speak. The whole room hums with the kind of nervous energy you only get when you know someone’s about to lie to themselves.

Then she clears her throat. Offers a practiced smile and says her name—Rue.

There’s a calmness in the way she speaks, but it’s not the kind that comes easy. It’s the kind you earn. The kind you build up brick by brick after too many highways and too many houses with broken locks and shut windows. There’s weight behind her eyes—like she’s seen too much and still believes trying matters.

She pulls a thick folder from her oversized bag and sets it on her lap like it’s something sacred. When she begins to speak, her voice is even, professional—but there's something underneath it. A quiet urgency, the kind that says she’s been here before, too many times, and she’s praying this time will be different. That maybe if she gets the words just right, maybe if she hits the right note, this boy won’t slip through the cracks like the rest.

“Since this is an emergency placement,” she says carefully, “you’ll still need to complete a home study. Background checks for anyone in regular contact with Dallas. He’ll need to be enrolled in school right away, and we’ll set up a follow-up to assess how things are going in the next few weeks.”

Her eyes flick from Dallas to me and back again, gauging the damage. Trying to figure out if we’re already burning or just waiting for the match.

Emergency placement. Like he’s a fire they’re trying to contain.

And us? We’re just the last door that wasn’t locked.

Dallas scowls like he'd rather eat soap. His eyes flick between us, sharp and watchful, like he’s cataloging every weakness, every crack in the walls we’ve built around ourselves.

“I need to check a few things around the house before I leave,” Rue says softly, already rising to her feet, “but I do have this for you.”

She reaches into her bag and pulls out a binder—thick, overstuffed, the plastic cover warped from too many car rides and too many desperate placements. The second it hits her lap, I watch Dallas recoil like it’s something alive. His small body sinks further into the couch, spine curling in, chin tucking toward his chest. He doesn’t say a word, but everything about him screams: Not again. Please not again.