I’m not protecting anyone.
I’m just controlling the collapse.
And eventually, the whole thing is going to come down anyway.
The question is whether I burn alone or take everyone with me.
I text Jess as I head toward the elevator.
How was pickup?
Three dots appear immediately.
Smooth. Ben used the breathing in the hallway without prompting. Progress.
Progress.
Yeah.
That’s what we’re calling this slow-motion disaster.
I pocket my phone and step into the elevator. Watch the floors tick down. Try not to think about what comes next.
Try not to think about how badly I want something I have no right to want.
Try not to think about Gideon’s words echoing in my skull like a fucking curse.
If you confuse control with care, you’ll lose both.
Fuck.
21
Jess
It’s nine thirty at night and I’m debriefing in Marco’s kitchen and pretending my panties aren’t wet.
At all.
We’re supposed to be discussing Ben’s progress. Her meltdown frequency. Whether the Brave Rules are actually working or if we’re just lucky she hasn’t completely spiraled yet.
It’s supposed to be a totally normal employer-employee conversation.
Except Marco’s leaning against the counter in tight T-shirt (black of course), and I’m perched on a barstool trying very hard not to notice how the kitchen lighting makes his biceps and forearms look like they were carved by someone with a very specific agenda.
“She used the breathing technique three times today without prompting,” I’m saying, flipping through my notes like they’re suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. “Once in the hallway atschool. Once before snack. And once when Frederick fell off the counter.”
“Frederick fell?” Marco’s eyebrow lifts.
“Tragic stuffed snail accident. We held a brief memorial service. Ben gave a eulogy. It was very moving.”
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “You’re good with her.”
“I’m okay with her,” I correct. Because accepting compliments feels like tempting fate. Like the universe will notice I’m doing well and immediately yank the rug out from under me.
When you’re so used to failure that success feels like a setup.
“You’re more than okay.” His voice drops. Gets quieter. More intimate. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to us in two years.”
