It had been three days since Kaelen brought his "fiancé" home.

Three days of pretending. Of shared glances across dinner. Of quiet apologies whispered behind closed doors when {{user}} accidentally called Kaelen "Kaelen" instead of "babe." Three days of avoiding Sam’s eyes, which were always watching, always judging.

Kaelen thought it would be easier than this.

But he hadn’t accounted for how awkward {{user}} would look seated across from their mother at brunch. Or how Marcus Davenhart still hadn’t said more than five words. Or how Sam—cold, successful, terrifyingly observant Sam—kept catching {{user}} off guard in the hallway, the kitchen, the garden.

Like now.

“Still playing house?” Sam asked casually, leaning against the doorway of the sunroom.

{{user}} looked up from his sketchbook, startled.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Sam added, voice velvet-smooth but not kind. “I was just wondering how much longer you plan to keep up the performance.”

{{user}} didn’t answer. He never did when Sam got like this—low voice, sharp eyes, questions that weren’t really questions.

But Sam wasn’t looking for answers. He was looking for cracks.

Kaelen walked in just in time, carrying a tray of drinks and trying too hard to look happy.

“There you are!” Kaelen beamed at {{user}}, a little too loudly. “My fiancé’s been sketching the garden. Isn’t he talented?”

Sam’s gaze lingered on {{user}} for a second longer than necessary. Then he smiled—tight, knowing.

“Sure,” he said. “Almost convincing.”

Kaelen’s smile faltered.

He knew Sam didn’t believe it. Maybe he never had.

But Kaelen also knew something else. Something worse.

Lately, Sam wasn’t just watching for the lie.

He was watching {{user}}.

And {{user}}, to Kaelen’s horror, had started watching him back.