"I'll look at the tax paperwork later," Cillian says, rising to open the window as I slip into the agent's office.
"Air's stuffy anyway," the agent adds, brushing a folder with a practiced smile. "Sit. This will be quick. You're approved, right?"
"Pre-approval came through," I say. "I've got the deposit wired."
"Good." The agent folds a paper like it's routine. "We just need to agree on the rest. The seller's firm at—"
"Tell me your number," I cut in. "Don't start with sympathy discounts. State the price you want and the final figure you expect on closing."
Cillian watches me from beside the window. He doesn't lean in. He doesn't offer to take over. He keeps his hands in his pockets like he wants to leave the room free for me.
The agent's smile flickers. "That's—bold."
"Plain numbers work better than speeches," I say. "My budget is my budget."
"Most buyers don't speak like that," the agent says. "They let us guide them. You know, sellers price emotionally. They preserve pride. If you show—you know."
"I won't accept pity," I say. "I didn't come here for charity."
Silence. The agent flips through pages as if the right line will appear and fix the moment.
Cillian says, "If it's useful, I can answer questions about the apartment's condition. I kept a few maintenance receipts. I can walk you through the
