Ava stood in front of the Brooks house again, clutching a bottle of red wine like a peace offering. The sky was already deep orange, and the air smelled faintly of roasted herbs drifting from the open window.

"You’re sure this is a good idea?"  

"Too late to run," Evan said, adjusting the strap of his camera bag as if it were armor.  

"Last time your mother nearly suffocated me with affection."  

"She calls that hospitality."  

"She calls that oxygen deprivation."  

He smiled, the easy grin that always disarmed her. "You survived, didn’t you?"  

"Survival isn’t the same as recovery."

Before she could protest further, the door opened and Mrs. Brooks appeared in a cloud of warmth and vanilla.  

"There’s my favorite couple!" she exclaimed. "You’re just in time; the roast is perfect."  

"Hi, Mrs. Brooks," Ava said, offering the wine.  

"Oh, you brought a gift! How lovely. You didn’t have to, dear."  

"I thought it might help," Ava admitted.  

Mrs. Brooks winked. "Smart girl."

Inside, the dining room glowed under the golden light of the chandelier. Sophie was already there, arranging napkins while recording a story for her followers.  

"Smile!" she said. "I need proof you two actually exist offline."  

"Delete that," Evan warned.  

"Not a chance."

Mrs. Brooks ushered them to their seats. "I hope you’re hungry. I made too much, as usual."  

"Smells amazing," Ava said, meaning it.  

"Thank you! Cooking is how I show love."  

Evan muttered, "And control."  

Mrs. Brooks pointed a spoon at him. "I heard that."

They sat down. The table was covered with roast chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, bread, and at least three different desserts waiting on the counter. Ava felt like she’d stepped into a magazine spread titled *Domestic Perfection, with Hidden Panic.*

"So, Ava," Mrs. Brooks began, "how’s work? Still changing the marketing world?"  

"I’m trying," Ava said politely.  

"She’s amazing," Evan added. "Her last campaign went viral."  

Mrs. Brooks gasped with delight. "Oh, you brag about her now! How sweet."  

"Mom," he groaned.  

"What? I’m proud. My son finally found someone who keeps him grounded."  

"More like chained," Sophie murmured.

Ava tried to laugh. "I think I prefer ‘anchored.’"  

"See?" Mrs. Brooks said. "She’s quick. I like her already."

Conversation spilled like wine—warm, fast, impossible to stop. Mrs. Brooks asked about Ava’s family, her job, her favorite childhood meal. Sophie filmed half of it before Evan stole her phone. Every answer Ava gave turned into another topic, another story, another way for the woman to weave her into the fabric of the Brooks household.

When Mrs. Brooks disappeared into the kitchen to fetch the pie, Sophie leaned in. "You’re handling this really well."  

"I’m surviving," Ava whispered.  

"Same thing."

Evan refilled her glass. "You’re doing great."  

"Stop narrating my trauma," she whispered.  

He grinned. "You’re adorable when you panic."  

"I will pour this wine on you."  

"Wouldn’t be the worst date we’ve had."

She glared, but the edge of her mouth betrayed a smile.  

Mrs. Brooks returned carrying a pie that looked professionally made. "Dessert time!" she sang. "Evan, get the plates. Sophie, put that phone away."  

"Yes, ma’am," Sophie said, pretending to salute.

As they passed the dishes around, the air felt lighter. Ava realized she was laughing more than she’d expected, responding easily to Mrs. Brooks’ endless chatter. For the first time, she wasn’t thinking about the rules of their fake relationship or the image they had to maintain. For the first time, she just felt—comfortable.

"More whipped cream?" Mrs. Brooks asked.  

"Please," Ava said.  

Evan leaned close. "Told you you’d survive."  

"Barely," she said, smiling.