A staff member gestures between us. "Sadie, this is Wyatt.”
His jaw tightens, like my name just did something to him.
“Hi,” I manage.
He nods, slow and deliberate.
“I’m Wyatt Callahan.”
The name lands with weight, like a door clicking shut. In or out? I haven’t decided.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t crowd.
Just offers the truth like a handhold.
The coordinator hands us slim folders. “This confirms your match. It lays out the arrangement, emergency contacts, and follow-up options. You're encouraged to add your own expectations or opt out at any point.”
I glance down at the paperwork—legal language softened by neutral phrasing.
Either party may end the arrangement at any time. No questions asked. No reason necessary.
A temporary cohabitation. A probationary clause.
Fair. Practical. Smart.
But when Wyatt takes his copy, he flips straight to that line, pulls a pen from his jacket, andcrosses it outwith one deliberate stroke.
“No need,” he says, calm and final.
The coordinator blinks. “That part is optional, of course. Some participants prefer to?—”
“Not backing out,” Wyatt says simply. His gaze flicks to me, steady and open. “We’ll figure it out.”
It’s not about possession or control. It’s an anchor. A promise I didn’t ask for and didn’t know I wanted—until now.
We each sign.
The pen trembles in my hand.
When we finish, she slides the folders back into her tablet bag, then glances between us with a smile that feels like a quiet blessing.
“Well,” she says softly. “That’s it. You’re good to go.”
She turns her attention to me. “You’ve got backup, Sadie. Always. Call if you need anything.”
“I will,” I whisper.
Wyatt offers his hand. “She’ll have space. And safety. On her terms.”
The coordinator studies him for a few seconds. Something in her expression shifts—like she’s not just hearing the words, she’s weighing the man.
Then she nods and shakes his outstretched hand. “Yes. I believe she will.”
With a final smile, the coordinator turns and leaves.
“Truck’s outside. Can I carry anything for you?” Wyatt asks.
I hold up my small backpack—my whole life, pathetic as that is. “Just this.”
