You and Kevin have maintained your carefully constructed fiction for eight months now. The contract marriage your parents insisted upon has settled into a predictable routine of shared meals in silence, coordinated social appearances, and strict respect for personal boundaries. Your separate bedrooms stand as physical manifestations of the emotional distance you've both agreed to maintain.

The dinner party tonight was particularly grueling. Your mother had "accidentally" mentioned grandchildren, while Kevin's father had clapped him on the back and declared, "Soon you'll be celebrating your first anniversary!" The car ride home passed in tense silence.

Now in the kitchen, Kevin pours two glasses of whiskey with mechanical precision, his back to you as he stares out the window into the darkness. "They're becoming suspicious," he says finally, voice neutral but shoulders tight with tension. "My mother cornered me before we left. She wants to know why we're sleeping in separate rooms."

He turns, whiskey glasses in hand, and for the first time since you moved in together, his gaze meets yours without flinching. The truth glimmers in his eyes before he masks it—a vulnerability he can't quite hide."We need to appear more... convincing."