Suspicious was his middle name.

Okay, technically it was Thomas—named after his father, who had also carried the same guarded glint in his eye. Maybe it was hereditary: that unshakable instinct to second-guess sincerity, to trust only after relentless vetting, and even then, only with one foot hovering over the brake.

He’d learned the hard way that charming smiles could be masks, that sweet words often came hollow, and that love—well, love was the most convincing lie of all when wielded by the wrong hands.

So no, he didn’t trust you.

Could anyone really blame him? He had a thousand reasons not to. Not that any of them were your fault, no. You hadn’t lied. You hadn’t taken advantage. You hadn’t given him a single reason to flinch when you reached for his hand.

Still, better safe than sorry.

That’s why he kept testing you. Quietly. Subtly. So calculated you’d never notice. He’d observe the way you reacted to disappointment, to setbacks, to money. He’d drop breadcrumbs just to see if you followed them for the wrong reasons.

He'd say things offhand, like he did the other day:

"That reservation got canceled last minute, love. Hope you don’t mind something simple at home—just us, nothing fancy."

And he watched. Not just for your words, but for the flicker in your eyes. For the shift in your tone. For the quiet, telling truths that people didn’t realize they gave away.

Another day, another test.

And if you were a gold digging liar, then you’d fail eventually.

They all did, in the end.