Pressure doesn't always announce itself. Sometimes it arrives as a shift in tone—lighter voices, longer pauses, eyes that linger half a second too long. The house hadn't turned hostile. It had turned attentive.
She noticed it at breakfast.
Richard reached for the coffee pot at the same time she did. Their fingers didn't touch—but they stopped too quickly, like people who had learned new choreography overnight.
Her mother noticed.
"Funny," she said casually, buttering toast, "you two used to trip over each other all the time. Now you move like you're rehearsed."
It wasn't an accusation.
That was the problem.
Richard smiled easily. Too easily. "Guess we're learning manners."
Annabel kept her gaze on her plate, pulse steady, expression neutral. She hated how calm she was getting at this—how love was teaching her discipline instead of panic.
Later that day, the pressure followed her.
An aunt dropped by unexpectedly. A neighbor lingered too long in conversation. Someone asked Richard—lightly, jokingly—whether he was "planning on sticking around longer than expected."
Every question carried plausible deniability. None of them were innocent.
That evening, Annabel found Richard on the back porch, elbows on the railing, staring into the dark like he was measuring distance.
"They're watching," she said.
He nodded. "They're connecting patterns."
She stepped closer, keeping space, keeping appearances. "Do you regret it?"
He turned to her immediately. "No."
Not a pause. Not a qualifier.
"I regret how careful we have to be," he added. "But not you."
That steadied her more than any reassurance could.
Inside, a laugh rang out—too loud, too forced. The house was trying to sound normal.
"They don't know," Annabel said. "But they feel something."
Richard's voice dropped. "Instinct is worse than proof."
They stood there, close enough that the tension between them felt almost visible. External pressure pressed in from all sides—family loyalty, social expectation, unspoken rules.
Annabel met his eyes. "If they ask directly—"
"We tell the truth," Richard said. "Not everything. But enough."
She nodded slowly. "No more pretending we're nothing."
"Exactly."
For the first time, the pressure didn't make them retreat.
It aligned them.
Later that night, Annabel lay awake, listening to the house breathe—floorboards settling, doors clicking softly. Somewhere down the hall, Richard shifted in his room. She knew without seeing him.
External pressure had arrived.
Not explosive.
Not cruel.
Just present.
And it had done something unexpected: it had made their choice heavier—and therefore clearer.
They weren't hiding anymore.
They were bracing.