He leaned in slightly, his eyes gleaming with a sudden, quiet intensity.

“Maybe we can find a way to make everyone happy,” Rylan said.

“How?” I asked, instantly suspicious of his shift in tone.

“I want to help you,” Rylan said, his voice smooth and persuasive. “I want this house to feel like a real home for both of us. But right now, I feel like a guest here too.”

“You live here,” I said.

“But I don’t own it,” he said. “I don’t have any security. And neither does my family.”

I stared at him, my heart beginning to beat faster against my ribs.

“What are you saying, Rylan?” I asked.

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded piece of heavy cream paper.

He didn’t open it, but he held it between his two fingers, tapping it gently against his palm.

“I had a lawyer draft something,” Rylan said, his voice dropping even lower.

The paper looked official, the top edge showing a glimpse of a legal letterhead.

My breath caught in my throat as I looked at the document in his hand.