The house had tried patience. It tried again. The kitchen's square blinked once more, gave a small sound, and then waited like a polite messenger who refuses to leave the porch.
"Stay," I said to the quilt, and slid free of it.
Evan followed with that loose, quiet care he keeps for rooms. We crossed the dim hall, passed the sleeping drawer where our phones off breathed, and touched the panel.
Aisha's face appeared in a rectangle that looked like it had been designed by people who love printers. She didn't waste a syllable.
"Night judge is on," she said. "We can file ex parte for a narrow TRO: enjoin suspend unless clarify as retaliatory, enjoin 'couch' or any no unannounced intimacy setups as conditions of access, order no harassment of clerks with signage and incident number protocol. Relationship can be under seal. We need you now."
Evan looked at me. That wire was still warm under my skin. "We go," he said, and didn't turn it into a question I didn't need.
"Two minutes," Rita said from the speaker by the sink. "Boone is outside. Victor has the quiet car. window sits next to my heart."
We dressed for function. Shoes that didn't click. A coat that knows lint won't kill you. In the kitchen I put my palm over the drawer with our sleeping rectangles.
"phones off," I said.
"phones off," Evan echoed. We didn't touch them. We didn't take them. He put the keys in the dish, took them back out, and handed them to me because sometimes the right ritual is choosing who holds the door.
Boone's knock was a syllable made of knuckle and discipline. "Garage," he said, and his shadow contained the hall like a sentence with good punctuation.
The night tasted like steel that has learned to be kind. The car was a dark animal that liked us. Victor flicked a dial; the engine agreed to be a whisper. The garage door lifted its spine and we slid into a city that had taken off its earrings.
Aisha briefed on hands-free, her voice crisp, not cold. "Judge wants names, not vibes," she said. "Under seal for relationship only. Everything else on the record. pre-commit already on file with Standards and Counsel. notice drafted for Board retal. I will say morals clause 12.4 out loud until someone cries."
"Paper first," Evan said.
"Paper first," Aisha confirmed. "Prepare to say the words under oath and under seal. Then I speak for you until tomorrow."
We took streets that remember their jobs at night: lanes that hold, lights that cycle with mercy. The courthouse rose like a lesson I didn't resent. The night entrance lit its rectangle for us. Inside, a guard with a crossword and eyes that have seen all genres waved us toward bins.
Belts. Watches. Boone's multitool surrendered like a good citizen and would be forgiven later. The wand hummed, found nothing it could brag about. Rita held up the window card at sternum height and the guard smiled like a woman who still likes fonts.
"Down the hall," she said. "Second door. He hates coffee at this hour, so don't bring him any."
The Night Clerk wore a cardigan that believed in itself and a lanyard that did not. She checked our IDs without turning it into a performance, then wrote our last names on a yellow pad in the kind of hand that will outlive all of us. The Recorder, a person the size of a precise paragraph, oiled his machine and nodded so we knew we were inside the box where sound becomes fact.
"Counsel on?" the Clerk asked the air. Aisha's square arrived on a cart screen, followed by PIO, who looked like she had a cup of something brave off camera. Another square winked in, then blinked back out, the way rats behave when the kitchen light comes on.
"Board Counsel tried to join," Aisha said mildly. "I reminded him ex parte = facts from movants only; his turn tomorrow. He sent a pdf with adjectives; I sent back commentary."
The second door opened. The judge wore a robe like a sweater and a face like a book that has been read and not underlined. He sat. We stood. The Reporter rolled paper's descendant into the machine's throat.
"On the record," the judge said. His voice had the patience of old wood. "Cause number and style will be assigned on release. Preliminary hearing on movants' ex parte application for temporary relief. Appearances."
Aisha: "For the movants."
PIO: "For the department, as to signage and clerk safety."
The judge's eyes included us without burning us. "Names for the record," he said.
"Maya Quinn," I said.
"Evan Hale," Evan said.
"Good evening," the judge said, and made the words mean what they say. "Counsel, summary."
Aisha did not sprint. She placed. "We seek a narrow TRO," she said. "One: restrain employer from conditioning access or continued work on so-called 'clarify' statements on air or in any couch or bench scenario, per morals clause 12.4 and anti-retaliation law. Two: restrain use of the 'suspend unless clarify' label in lower-thirds or on socials pending due process, as misleading absent on-face consent; require window on any mention. Three: order no harassment of clerks at County Records, with signage and incident number protocol for crowd control. Relationship facts can be stated under seal; we will speak publicly when there is Consent on Record without coercion."
"Evidence?" the judge asked.
Rita stepped forward with a tidy folder that smelled like praise withheld. "Affidavits," she said. "Clips, crawls, the governance screenshot showing queued, then hold. window policy from Standards. Public Record Statement from PIO. And an affidavit under seal from my clients regarding status."
The judge glanced at the PIO square. "Department?"
"Clerks are being yelled at with screenshots of an index," PIO said. "We have notice ready; happy to post with the court's order and incident number."
"Very well," the judge said, and turned to us with the care you use when you ask a candle to move. "Ms. Quinn, Mr. Hale, I need you under oath."
The Clerk produced a thin bible and a thicker statute book. The judge tipped his head. "Pick whichever holds you," he said. We both chose the statute with a small, private smile that belonged to people who like nouns.
"Raise your right hands," the Clerk said. "Do you swear or affirm that the testimony you give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"
"I do," I said.
"I do," Evan said.
"Two parts," the judge said. "One on the open record, one under seal. On the open: did your employer or its agents attempt to condition access or continued work on an on-air 'clarify' of your relationship?"
"Yes," I said.
"Yes," Evan said.
"Were clerks at County Records harassed today by members of the public wielding screenshots?"
"Yes," I said.
"Yes," Evan said.
The judge nodded once. "Now under seal." He looked at the Reporter, who reached under the machine and pulled a little lever that closes a lid without stopping the turning. The Recorder marked the time. The Clerk slid a paper with a blue stripe across the desk.
"State your status to the court in one sentence," the judge said. "It will be under seal until I say otherwise. No adjectives."
Evan looked at me. I nodded. He took a breath you could have shelved books with.
"We are lawfully married," he said, steady. "We have been since two years ago last month."
The judge did not look surprised. He looked like a man checking a box he had expected to check. "Thank you," he said, and the word went down on the sealed side. He turned to me. "Do you concur, Ms. Quinn?"
"Yes," I said. My mouth found the exact shape of relief and placed it quietly in the sealed column.
The judge tapped the sealed paper with a knuckle. "Very well," he said. "Seal remains. On the open record, I find that movants have shown a substantial likelihood of prevailing on the merits as to anti-retaliation and clerks' safety, and that irreparable harm would occur without immediate relief."
Aisha didn't smile; her shoulders lost one ounce of war.
"I will enter a narrow TRO," the judge continued. "Employer is enjoined from conditioning access or continued work on any on-air 'clarify' or participation in any couch or bench scenario that attempts to force labels. Employer and affiliates are restrained from posting or airing 'suspend unless clarify' absent a clear notation that such language is commentary and from doing so without a window plate directing viewers to actual records."
He looked to PIO. "Department will post no harassment of clerks signage and implement incident number logging for any crowd activity at County Records. Staff may escort out visitors who film or harass clerks at windows."
"Done," PIO said.
"Show cause in seven days," the judge said. "Employer counsel is entitled to be heard then. For tonight, I will keep the relationship statement under seal. Movants may make a Public Record Statement at their discretion. Court endorses the six words," he added, dry: "seal, date, docket - or no story."
The Clerk slid pages to Aisha's square with the speed of a woman who has shared a desk with midnight. The Reporter marked time again. The Recorder flipped his little lever up; the sealed lid stayed sealed.
"Questions?" the judge asked.
Aisha raised one finger. "Your Honor, the Board may attempt to argue they've already 'suspended' by social media," she said. "We ask the language to clarify that any copy conditioned on coercion is restrained pending hearing."
"Make it so," the judge said. "And give me a paragraph with teeth for clerks."
"I have three," PIO said, almost cheerful.
The judge returned his gaze to us as if remembering he had invited us into his living room and intended to see us out. "I will ask one more thing for the record," he said. "under seal, one sentence, plain. Then we are done."
He nodded to the Reporter. The little lever dipped. The world became the smaller room again.
"For the sealed record," the judge said, "state your relation to one another in a single sentence. Then we will return to the open, I will sign, and you will go home."
Evan's hand found my wrist bone. Not a grip. A comma. His eyes asked me what we had already decided.
I turned my palm under his, let my thumb press the place where his pulse holds a pencil.
He looked back at the judge.
"We are married," he said.
The Recorder's wheels turned the sentence into paper. The seal held. The night did not clap.