Julie barely slept.
Every time she closed her eyes, she felt the brush of Roman's mouth against hers — warm, desperate, confusing — and the way he had pulled back like he'd broken a rule he wasn't allowed to admit existed.
By the time morning light bled through her curtains, her chest hurt from overthinking.
She showered, dressed in one of the soft gray shirts from the Integration Kit, and slipped downstairs.
Roman was already in the kitchen. Hair clean, uniform crisp, posture rigid. Deputy Chief again, not the man with whiskey on his breath.
Julie hesitated in the doorway.
Roman didn't look up. "Sit."
His voice was perfectly neutral — Directorate neutral — like last night had been a hallucination.
Julie sat. Quiet. Small.
He placed a bowl of oatmeal and sliced fruit in front of her. Not strawberries today. Blueberries.
She stared at the bowl, then at him. Waiting. Needing context.
Roman finally met her eyes.
"There's an inspection this afternoon," he said. "I need you composed. Measured. Answer their questions simply and without editorializing."
Julie swallowed. "What kind of questions?"
"Emotional stability, domestic compatibility, receptivity."
Julie blinked. "Receptivity?"
Roman's jaw tightened. "They want to know if you understand the bond evaluation. They expect calm… and cooperation."
Julie nodded once, eyes down.
She wanted to ask — what are we now? — but the words jammed in her throat.
Roman cleared his dish and left the room, footsteps precise and controlled.
He had erased the balcony.
Julie stared at her untouched oatmeal and whispered to the empty kitchen:
"Okay."
Dean came back from an early procurement run, boots dusty, jacket unzipped, hair slicked back with water from the morning humidity. Lean muscle, tattoos disappearing beneath his sleeves, striking blue eyes scanning the house out of habit.
He slowed when he saw Julie standing alone in the hallway, bowl in hand, looking lost.
"You okay?" he asked quietly.
Julie startled. "Um. Yeah. Just… breakfast."
Dean's gaze flicked to the kitchen, then back to her. He didn't push.
"Inspection today," he said with a dry exhale. "Fun stuff."
Julie attempted a smile but it came out thin. "I don't know what I'm supposed to say."
Dean reached for the clean glass on the shelf and filled it with water. "Say as little as possible. Inspectors love silence. They get to define it however they want."
Julie's eyebrows knit. "Is that… good?"
"It's safer."
He passed her the glass. Their fingers brushed. Julie flinched — not from fear, but from surprise at being touched gently.
Dean pulled his hand back quickly, disguising the moment with a shrug.
"They're looking for signs of instability," he continued. "Crying, shaking, asking to go home — those get flagged. If you look bored, they move on."
Julie blinked. "Bored?"
"Dead-eyed and polite," Dean corrected. "Like every Directorate citizen at a lecture."
Julie let out an involuntary laugh — small and nervous and real.
Dean smiled, brief but warm.
Roman's footsteps sounded upstairs — heavy, precise — a reminder that the house had listening ears even if walls didn't.
Dean's expression shuttered back to neutral just as Roman descended.
Roman entered the kitchen with an inspection file in one hand. He paused when he saw Julie and Dean together.
Dean straightened, posture respectful.
Julie shifted her weight, clutching the water glass like a shield.
Roman handed Julie a printed packet. "Read this before they arrive."
Julie nodded. "Okay."
Dean cleared his throat. "I need to review the vehicle logs. I'll be in the garage."
Roman didn't look at him. "Dismissed."
Dean exited, closing the door softly behind him.
Only then did Roman speak again.
"You should eat."
The words were soft — quieter than his orders should sound — but his eyes didn't match the softness. They were calculating, assessing, searching for signs of last night in her expression.
Julie forced herself to pick up her spoon.
Roman sat across from her, silent.
The air between them vibrated with the memory of that kiss — the heat, the closeness, the way Julie had kissed him back.
Roman finally said, low:
"Last night… I was drunk."
Julie's heart lurched. "I know."
Roman's gaze didn't waver. "It won't happen again."
Julie didn't know why that hurt. It just did.
She looked down at her bowl and said, barely audible:
"Okay."
Roman flinched — tiny — like the word had cut something he wasn't prepared for.
Julie sat at the dining table, packet open, compliance cuff blinking.
Dean passed through occasionally, pretending to look for tools or files, but really making sure she wasn't spiraling.
Every time Roman entered the room, Dean made himself scarce — not because he was afraid of Roman, but because he was afraid of his own face giving something away.
At 2:06 PM, the government sedan rolled up the drive.
Roman opened the front door before Julie could panic, standing tall, uniform immaculate, expression locked.
The same two inspectors from before entered, scanning the house, scanning Julie, scanning Roman.
"Begin assessment," the taller one said.
Julie sat in the designated chair, hands folded in her lap, breathing slow like she'd been taught at age six.
The inspector opened his tablet. "Name?"
"Julie Hayes."
"Age?"
"Twenty-two."
"Current status?"
"Claimed, pending bond evaluation."
Roman watched her closely.
The inspector continued. "Do you feel safe in this household?"
Julie froze.
Six eyes in the room.
One answer that could ruin everything.
She inhaled.
Exhaled.
Then, voice steady, "I'm not in danger."
The inspector typed.
Dean, watching from the corner, felt the floor shift under his feet.
Then the inspector asked:
"Do you have any desire to return to your previous home?"
Julie's throat squeezed. Mara. Her old room. The clinic. Her life.
She heard Dean's voice in her head: Dead-eyed and polite.
She forced her face blank. "No."
Inspector typed again.
Roman's shoulders eased by a fraction.
Dean looked away.
When it was over, inspectors left with mechanical efficiency and not a whisper of concern.
"Compliance confirmed," the shorter one announced before leaving. "Bond evaluation authorized."
Door closed.
Julie finally exhaled.
Roman nodded once. "You did well."
Julie stared at her hands. "I told them the truth."
Roman paused. "Which part?"
Julie looked up, meeting his eyes. "I'm not in danger."
Roman's jaw clenched — because it was true, and because it wasn't enough.
That night, Julie sat in bed staring at her cuff, thinking of the balcony, of Mara, of Dean in the shower, of Roman's uniform, of the six-month clock.
Down the hall, Dean lay awake staring at the ceiling, hearing that one question:
Do you have any desire to return to your previous home?
And Julie's flat: No.
Roman sat in his office, staring at the inspection report, replaying the kiss he swore would never happen again.
The Directorate didn't train men to want.
But Roman Vale did.
And wanting was becoming a problem.