The cafeteria inside the Grand Archivum dished out meatloaf. For Arthur Penn, it resembled a hunk of crushed sadness topped with goop that mocked every rule about colors. He took a seat at the middle table, the one workers now casually call the "Love Nest" then lined up his fork and knife straight along the tray's edge. Cleo Vance sat opposite. A spoon prodded her meatloaf like she expected it to flinch or blink.
"Eat," Arthur whispered without moving his lips. "People are watching. Couples eat. They nourish themselves to sustain their shared future."
"I can't," Cleo mumbled, staring into her mashed potatoes. "Linda from HR has been staring at the back of my neck for twelve minutes. I can feel her gaze. It feels like a laser pointer."
Arthur pushed his glasses up, then peeked over at the drink area. Sure enough, Linda stood there faking stirring sugar into her cup, but really staring their way like a bird of prey locking onto its next meal.
"She is assessing the validity of our union," Arthur murmured. "Smile. Laugh at a joke I didn't make."
I don't know any jokes," Cleo blurted out her voice shaky, fear creeping up. But she tried to stay calm, even though it was tough.
"Then recite the Fibonacci sequence and giggle," Arthur commanded.
Cleo breathed in slow. "One, one, two, three, five..." Out came a sharp, scared laugh, like a wild dog stuck mid-yelp. "Hahaha! Eight! Thirteen!"
Arthur faked a wide grin. "Hey, sweetie, man, you crack me up."
He leaned over the table, touched her hand. She twitched a little, yet stayed put.
"This is exhausting," Cleo whispered, her smile fixed like a rictus of pain. "My cortisol levels are through the roof. I haven't slept. I keep having nightmares that my dad is interrogating you about photosynthesis and you don't know the difference between Xylem and Phloem."
"I have been studying," Arthur said stiffly. "Xylem transports water; Phloem transports nutrients. I am prepared for the botanical inquisition."
"But the apartment," Cleo hissed. "We still haven't staged the apartments. He arrives on Saturday. That is forty-eight hours away."
Arthur shivered as a bead of sweat ran down his side. That apartment setup? Last challenge and totally nerve-wracking. If they wanted Vance to believe they were legit together, their place had to look like two lives blended, no faking it. Arthur stayed in a cold place full of clocks. It felt lifeless, like nothing ever changed there. Cleo stayed in a damp cave full of mushrooms.
"Tonight," Arthur declared. "We execute Phase 3: Acquisition of Domestic Props. We must go to The Living Space."
Cleo dropped her spoon. "The Living Space? The giant home goods store? The one with the maze layout designed to trap consumers?"
"It is the only place to acquire convincing couple artifacts in bulk," Arthur said grimly. "Meet me at the subway entrance at 5:15 PM. Wear comfortable shoes. We are going to war."
The Living Space sat out near the city's rim a huge old warehouse turned shopping spot. Lights blazed inside, mixing with the scent of fake cinnamon and worn-out dates. Shoppers crowded the aisles that Thursday night, moving slow through the glow. Arthur hovered by the doorway, holding tight to the cart's grip. His fingers pressed hard, turning pale. While he waited there, tension built up quick. Not a sound came from him just steady breaths mixing with silence.
"The noise floor is approximately 75 decibels," Arthur noted, wincing as a child screamed in the distance. "Acceptable limits, but irritating."
Cleo stayed close by his side, hood drawn over her head. While staring down rows that never seemed to end, she saw stacks of towels, fluffy pillows, or handy tools for cooking.
"It's so... bright," she whispered. "Why does everything have to be so colorful? Why do people need neon bath mats?"
"Because they lack internal order," Arthur explained. "Come. We have a checklist."
He took his notebook out.
1. Toothbrushes (2 sets) because they show you lived together.
2. Slippers (for him and her), Keep by the entryway.
3. Mugs that go together, made for the kitchen space.
4. Throw pillows, meant to mimic coziness.
5. A plant, linking Arthur's emptiness with Cleo's moss, yet showing quiet growth where none seemed possible.
"We start in Bath & Body," Arthur commanded.
They moved through the rows like scouts sneaking across dangerous ground. Arthur pushed the cart with exact moves, slicing around turns at perfect right angles. Behind him, Cleo followed close, letting him block her from rushing customers. They got to where the toothbrushes were. Rows of plastic heads stared back.
"Okay," Arthur said, analyzing the options. "We need two brushes for my bathroom, and two for yours. Just in case he visits both."
I use soft bristles," Cleo said while grabbing a pink brush.
"Absolutely not," Arthur intercepted her hand. "Soft bristles do not provide adequate plaque removal. Medium is the optimal stiffness."
"Soft is better for the gums!" Cleo argued. "My dad says gum health is an indicator of overall systemic health. If I have bleeding gums, he'll think I'm stressed."
"You are stressed," Arthur pointed out. "We are fake engaged to avoid exile to a rusty oil rig."
"Just let me get the soft one," Cleo pleaded. "And blue. Not pink. Pink is stereotypical."
"Blue clashes with my bathroom tiles," Arthur said, horrified. "My tiles are slate grey. We need white or translucent."
"Translucent is boring!" Cleo whisper-shouted. "It looks like a ghost toothbrush!"
A lady walking with a baby carriage took her time passing by, glancing their way. Her grin looked like she'd been there before. "Moving into your first place as a couple?" she said, voice warm and light.
Arthur stiffened. He glanced at the woman, then over to Cleo. She didn't move a muscle just stared first at her, then back at him.
"Yes," Arthur lied, straightening his posture. "We are debating the aesthetics of dental hygiene."
"Don't worry," the woman laughed. "Wait until you get to the curtains. That's where the real fights happen." She walked away, chuckling.
Arthur stared at the toothbrushes. "She thinks we are a real couple bickering."
We're arguing," Cleo said, shaking her head.
Arthur sighed. He grabbed two translucent brushes and two blue ones. "Fine. A compromise. But the blue ones go in the cabinet, not on the counter."
They headed over to where the beds were. That part felt risky somehow. Too personal, really. Stuff like fabric quality came up - also things you put on top of mattresses.
"We need a throw blanket," Arthur said, stopping in front of a wall of folded fabric. "Something that says 'we cuddle on the sofa,' but doesn't say 'we are messy people.'"
What do you think?" Cleo lifted a fluffy, bright green cloth kinda like glowing plant stuff. "Feels nice."
Arthur recoiled. "That color is an assault on the retina. It is chaos in fabric form."
"It feels like nature," Cleo hugged it. "It's comforting."
"It sheds," Arthur pointed out, picking a piece of green fluff off her coat. "That lint will get into my clock gears. It will clog the escapements. Absolutely not."
He grabbed a light brown wool blanket, thick and neatly stitched. "This one's tough, goes with anything, yet won't shed."
"It looks like a potato sack," Cleo said, wrinkling her nose. "It's scratchy."
"It is structured," Arthur corrected.
"Arthur," Cleo said, dropping the moss-blanket. She looked at him seriously. "If my dad comes to your apartment and sees only beige, grey, and white, he is going to think you are a robot. Or a serial killer. You need some life. You need a variable."
Arthur stared at the pale cloth. After that, his eyes shifted to the bright yellow burst.
"My father," Cleo continued, her voice softer, "loves color. He loves adaptation. If he sees a home that is too sterile, he thinks it's dead. He won't believe I live there. He knows I need texture."
Arthur saw she'd nailed it. The fake story needed to work not only for him, but for someone watching. That watcher? A guy drawn to disorder and change so the act had to feel real.
Arthur sighed, a long, suffering exhale. "Fine. Not the lime green. But..." He scanned the shelf. He pointed to a deep, forest green throw. It was velvet. "That one. It is dark enough to be dignified, but organic enough to satisfy your need for moss simulation."
Cleo touched the fabric. "Velvet," she whispered. "I hate the texture of velvet."
"You listed that in your dossier," Arthur remembered. "Rule 15: No velvet."
It hit him oddly this little rush of pride for recalling it.
Cleo reached for a thick knitted throw, light sage in color. "Hmm," she said, running her fingers across it. This is made from cotton, lets air through easily
"Acceptable," Arthur conceded. "The weave is tight enough."
They tossed the sage blanket into the cart. There it stayed, this odd green thing messing up Arthur's usual black and white vibe. Next was Kitchenware.
Mugs," Arthur reckoned. Same look
This time it felt simpler. Instead, they came across two ceramic cups. The first one had a white body plus a gray edge. The second showed a gray base with a white border instead.
"Yin and Yang," Cleo noted. "Symbiosis."
"Precise," Arthur agreed.
They moved quickly. Inside the cart piled up junk from their pretend relationship scented candle here (picked sandalwood, 'cause Arthur hated "Ocean Breeze" thanks to old trauma from Rig pics), some guest slippers next, then a basic framed image of smiling strangers they meant to swap out later for one taken at the park. Yet suddenly, trouble came their way. The Pillows.
They rounded the bend onto the pillow section when Arthur froze. There he stood, checking out a memory foam neck cushion, tall guy, clean jawline, hair combed tight back. His suit? Pricier than everything Arthur owned put together. Simon. That's who it was. Boss of online safety stuff. Simon never believed much in anything at work. That guy looked into the messed-up server thing back in '19. Nobody earned his trust easily. Ever since the news dropped, he kept staring at Arthur and Cleo like something wasn't right.
Keep your eyes on the target, twelve o'clock," Arthur snapped, yanking the cart behind him.
"It's Simon," Cleo squeaked, ducking behind a display of duvets. "He's the one who audits the internet usage. He knows I spend 40% of my time looking at fungus forums."
"If he sees us here," Arthur whispered, "it could be good. It cements the narrative. But we must appear natural."
"I can't appear natural," Cleo hyperventilated. "I am currently hiding behind a duvet."
"Stand up," Arthur commanded gently. "We are an engaged couple shopping for our home. It is a standard social ritual."
Cleo got to her feet, brushing down her sweatshirt. "Alright, what's next?"
"We engage," Arthur said. "We initiate."
He moved the cart ahead. "Simon! Evening!"
Simon spun around. His gaze tightened while checking them out. Then his focus shifted to the cart. The sage green cloth caught his attention next. After that, he noticed the pair of toothbrushes.
Penn," Simon remarked, tone slick, kinda cold. "Vance. Out buying stuff?"
Nesting," Arthur remarked, he picked up the word from some magazine while waiting at the store. Getting ready for when our places finally blend together, one way or another
I get it," Simon said, moving closer to look inside their cart. Then he grabbed the candle sandalwood and gave a small nod. Kinda cozy. Perfect for setting a mood
We feel calm about it," Cleo remarked, looking at Simon's footwear.
"You know," Simon said, placing the candle back with a thud. "I was surprised to hear about you two. I ran a background algorithm on the company chat logs. You two have exchanged exactly zero messages in five years."
Arthur's heart jumped. The online footprint, yeah, he'd ignored it till now.
"We prefer analog communication," Arthur said smoothly. "Letters. Notes. The written word carries more weight."
"Zero emails," Simon pressed. "Zero calendar invites. It's almost as if you didn't know each other existed until the Rig was announced."
The air down the hall felt thick. Simon stared hard at them, searching, always searching for a weak spot. Cleo moved ahead. Even though her hands trembled, she jammed them deep into her coat. Yet they still felt cold from the air outside.
"We didn't want people to know," Cleo said quietly. "Work is difficult. People judge. Especially the basement team vs. the upstairs team. We kept it offline. We used burner phones."
Arthur blinked, burner phones? Total nonsense.
Simon raised an eyebrow. "Burner phones? Like drug dealers?"
"Like lovers who want privacy," Cleo said, her voice gaining a sudden, fierce strength. "You monitor everything, Simon. Every keystroke. Every search. Maybe we wanted one thing in our lives that wasn't data for you to mine."
Arthur looked at her. Her rage against being watched poured out, fierce and raw. That moment felt sharp and clear. Simon glanced at Cleo. A moment passed and his expression shifted, like he hadn't expected that.
"Privacy," Simon mused. "A rare commodity."
He looked back at Arthur. "Well. The toothbrush count checks out. Two sets. very domestic." He smirked.
"Enjoy the nesting," Simon said. "And Penn? Check the expiration date on that candle. It looks cheap." Simon turned, vanishing toward the lights.
Arthur exhaled, air finally leaving his lungs after what felt like forever. Leaning into the cart's grip, he sagged sideways.
Burner phones? Arthur said quietly.
"I panicked," Cleo said, her knees shaking. "I watched a spy movie last night."
It was plausible," Arthur admitted. "He backed down."
"He's still watching," Cleo said. "He's going to check for burner phone signals now."
"Let him check," Arthur said. "He won't find anything, which supports the privacy theory."
He glanced at Cleo. She seemed weak, damp with sweat, holding tight to the cart's edge. Because she'd faced down the most intimidating guy at work just to keep their story alive.
"You performed admirably," Arthur said. "Your improvisation parameters are expanding."
Cleo managed a weak smile. "I just want to go home. I want to sit in the dark with my moss."
"One last item," Arthur said. "The Plant."
They headed toward the garden spot located outdoors, under a shaded patio space. Air felt fresher in this part. Temperature dropped a bit once they got close. Ferns sat on the shelf next to succulents, while palms took up space beside them.
"Pick one," Arthur said. "Something that won't die in my apartment. I keep the humidity at 45%."
Cleo moved along the aisle, brushing a peace lily's leaf. Then she frowned glancing at a cactus. Nope, way too harsh. She halted by a short, tough little plant that had round leaves like coins.
"Pilea peperomioides," Cleo said. "The Chinese Money Plant."
"Is it messy?" Arthur asked.
"No," Cleo said. "It's structural. It grows straight. But it makes little babies offshoots that you can share. It's resilient. It can survive a little neglect, but it thrives with attention." She grabbed the pot.
"It's perfect for you," she said. "It's green, but it's organized green."
Arthur stared at the green thing. Its leaves formed round shapes neat, almost too regular. Stems lined up like drawn with a ruler. Everything fit together, somehow planned.
"We will take it," Arthur said. "It will reside on the mantle, equidistant from the 1920s Mantel Clock and the barometer."
They left the store. After that, the cashier ran each item through the scanner. Two toothbrushes. Then matching mugs. A sage colored throw. Smells like vanilla from a small candle. Neat plant in a pot. Total: $145.50. Arthur settled up. Then he passed Cleo the bag her toothbrush inside, along with a candle. The blanket stayed with him, also the plant. They stepped outside into the parking area. By then, darkness had set in. Overhead, the urban glow started flickering awake.
"Phase 3 Complete," Arthur declared. "We possess the artifacts."
"Now we just have to survive the inspection," Cleo said.
"Tomorrow," Arthur said. "We stage the apartments. I will come to yours at 7:00 PM. You will come to mine at 8:00 PM."
"You're coming to my apartment?" Cleo stopped walking. She looked terrified. "It's humid. And dark. And there are spores."
"I will bring a mask," Arthur said. "And you will come to mine. And you will leave a toothbrush there. And you will touch my things."
"I won't break anything," Cleo promised.
"I know," Arthur said. He surprised himself by meaning it. "You are careful. I have observed your handling of the moss. You are gentle."
Cleo stared his way, caught off guard by what he said.
"Go home, Cleo," Arthur said softly. "Rest. The General arrives on Saturday."
"Night, Arthur," she told him.
She moved down the street to the bus stop, while a plastic bag full of pretend-couple stuff dangled at her hip. Arthur headed to his train. With one hand, he held the Pilea tight, using his jacket to block the gusts. Once back, he set the plant by the fireplace ledge. Then checked how far it was. Precisely half a foot away from the timepiece. He stepped back. The green leaves showed up real well next to the pale wall. But then again, it messed with the balance. Sort of changed how everything looked together. Arthur just looked at it.
"It's okay," he said out loud. He slumped into his seat, eyes on the green thing. First real sign of life around here besides himself and the cat in a whole decade. He drank some of his night tea. The flavor felt a bit richer tonight.