"So your boss wants us to fake a relationship."
"My boss wants a plausible reason for extended proximity."
"That's what I said. Fake relationship."
His jaw tightens. "It's a tactical cover."
"It's a fake relationship. You can call it tactical all you want, but at some point Oren's going to ask you how we met and tactical cover is not going to cut it."
He stares at me. I stare back. The ceiling medallion mediates in silence.
"Fine," he says. "How did we meet?"
"Through Del. She hired your company for an event. We met at the event. You asked me out. I said yes because — " I wave a hand at him. At the general situation of him. " — reasons."
"That's vague."
"Romance is vague. Nobody grills you on the specifics. They want the feeling of the story, not a timeline."
He looks like I've told him gravity is optional.
"We need to go to the hardware store," I say, because I need more wood filler and the distraction seems merciful. "You can do your perimeter thing. And we can practice."
"Practice what?"
"Being a couple. In public. Around humans."
Something behind his eyes shifts — a flicker of what I'm almost certain is dread.
"I'll get my jacket," he says, and leaves the doorway like the kitchen has caught fire.
The hardware store is four blocks away. Four blocks of cracked sidewalk, warm streetlights that come on too early, and neighbors who wave.
We make it half a block before the problem surfaces.
"You're scanning rooftops," I tell him.
"I'm aware of our surroundings."
"You're aware of our surroundings like a Secret Service agent. Normal boyfriends don't check sightlines on a walk to buy wood filler."
He lowers his gaze from the roofline of the dry cleaner's. It's marginally less conspicuous but still carries the energy of a man who knows where every exit is and has ranked them by tactical viability.
"You could look at me," I suggest. "Occasionally. Like I'm a person you voluntarily spend time with."
He looks at me. It's clinical. An assessment.
"Less like you're evaluating a structural weakness."
His jaw works. He looks at me again, and this time something softens — barely, like a lock clicking half a turn.
"Better," I manage. "Not great. But better."
Crossing the street, we pass Nina's shop. She's at the window with a cappuccino, watching us with the expression of a wildlife documentarian who's just spotted a rare mating ritual. I lift my hand in a wave that I hope conveys everything is normal and there is nothing to see here.
Nina sips her cappuccino. She is not convinced.
"We should hold hands," I say.
