The evening light slanted golden through the living room windows when Alden's car pulled up the driveway. The soft hum of the engine cut through the quiet drizzle outside. He caught sight of Mira in the lawn—barefoot, hair tied in a messy bun, streaks of mud painting her cheek and the hem of her pale dress. Her hands were buried in soil, working with an oddly fierce concentration, as if every flower she planted was keeping a secret.
He stepped out, loosened his tie, and called out with a teasing smile, "What are you doing?"
Without looking up, she answered, "Planting."
He chuckled, stepping closer, folding his arms. "Planting what? World domination?"
She raised her head, a playful glint flashing in her eyes as a smudge of mud crossed her cheekbone. "No," she replied, flicking the mud from her fingers with mock menace. "Your doom."
Alden feigned a gasp, clutching his chest dramatically. "Oh my, then I'm in trouble… is it my grave you're building?"
She scooped up a handful of dirt and tossed it at him. He dodged, laughing as the clump splattered harmlessly near his shoes.
"Go shower," she said, dusting her hands and stretching her arms toward the sky. "Then we'll eat. You stink, doc."
"The definition of 'stink' calling me stinky," he muttered with a grin as he headed inside.
The air in the house smelled faintly of soap, flowers, and dinner. Alden, half-freshened and half-curious, hesitated near the coffee table. Mira's phone lay there, facedown. He stared at it, chewing on his lower lip. He shouldn't. He really shouldn't. But the thought of her muddy shoes days ago—the faint, inexplicable tension that hummed between them lately—gnawed at him. Curiosity, sharper than guilt, finally won.
He unlocked it. No texts out of the ordinary. No photos seemed odd. Her browser history, though—was clean, too clean. No random Pinterest searches, no art references, no paint tutorials like usual. But there it was: a trail of cleared caches and one faint clue—recent visits to an e-news website. Multiple times.
Alden frowned, thumb hovering above the screen just as the sound of the bathroom door clicked open. He straightened instantly, slipping the phone onto the table like a guilty teenager. Mira emerged in a towel robe, damp hair wrapped high, her skin flushed from the hot shower.
She walked casually toward the fridge, opened it, and took out a carrot. She took a loud bite, eyes never leaving him. Then she pointed the carrot at him accusingly, her lips curving into a knowing smirk.
"Oh my, my suspicious husband," she said, tone lilting. "I think I should diagnose you today—with a mild case of imposter syndrome and a severe range of curiosity. So…" she wiggled the carrot like a doctor with a stethoscope, "find anything sus on your wifey?"
Alden blinked, mouth parting before he smirked. He took a step closer, lowered his head, and bit off the tip of the carrot she was holding. Her mock-offended gasp filled the room.
"Wifey's cleared," he said with a chuckle, then added more softly, eyes narrowing in play but edged with truth, "Except one thing. You never check news sites. Why do you have them sitting right there on your top search bar?"
Mira raised a brow, feigning deep thought. "Hmmmph! Good question." Then she grinned, "Two reasons. One—" she jabbed the carrot toward him again, "to stalk what you're doing."
His expression froze, caught between amusement and shock. The tips of his ears flushed pink. "To… stalk me?" he murmured, voice dipping lower, unsure whether to laugh or look flattered.
She leaned closer, whispering dramatically, "And second, because some headlines are insane. Like that story I read—foster parents killed a three-year-old girl because she freed their pet parrot. Can you believe that?"
The humour fell from his face. "Horrible," Alden said quietly, throat tightening. "Absolutely horrible."
"Yeah," she sighed, breaking the silence. "Anyway, I may have made too much food. I think I overdid dinner."
His stomach grumbled in response, and they both laughed.
Dinner was warm and comforting. Mira had outdone herself—pasta, soup, and a small cake she'd prepared beforehand. The table was scattered with plates, candles, and flowers she'd picked from the garden. Alden couldn't help noticing how she kept him focused: serving, talking, asking questions—keeping his gaze anywhere but her hands, her phone, her eyes that sometimes flickered away too fast.
When they moved to the couch, the air softened again. Their laughter mingled with the low hum of the television. Mira tucked her feet beneath her on the sofa, resting her head near his shoulder, pretending to be at ease. Yet, beneath her calm, something trembled—a secret, an unease that even the steady glow of the living room couldn't wash away.
Then the doorbell rang. A sharp sound that sliced through the quiet like a blade.
Mira jumped, heart thudding. "I'll get it!" she said, too fast, clambering over Alden's legs in a rush. She stumbled slightly, caught her balance, and ran to the door.
When she opened it, a uniformed police officer stood under the porch light, rain dripping from his cap. His face was unreadable.
"Good evening," he said. "I'm looking for Dr Alden."
Mira's pulse skipped. Her throat went dry.
She turned toward the living room, voice louder than she intended.
"Alden! The inspector's here—he wants to talk to you."
The faint clatter of his coffee mug echoed as Alden rose from the couch. His calm expression didn't falter, but in his eyes—just beneath the warm brown surface—something sharpened. A flicker of suspicion. Of realisation.
And as the officer stepped in, dripping rain onto the polished floor, the tension in the house thickened like the darkening clouds outside—quiet, heavy, and waiting to break.