“Yes,” I say, not for the cameras, for him. The word leaves my mouth and settles in my bones like weight redistributing to the right places. I haul him up by the lapels because I am not sentimental enough to leave him on the ground and also because I want his stupid, perfect face within kissing distance. I whisper it again into his shoulder, into the warm space where his neck meets his jaw. “Yes.”
Somewhere down the hall a tech hisses, “Cut the feed, cut the feed,” and fumbles at a switch on the side of a monitor like he’s trying to defuse a very gentle bomb. Another tech jogs past,hands up in surrender. “We’re dark, we’re dark,” he mutters, which is probably a lie and also probably good enough.
The lav pack on Jason’s back blinks one last red wink and goes dead. My heart keeps going like it didn’t read the off switch.
I kiss him, because there are only so many times in a life where kissing someone in a fluorescent hallway is the right answer. The ring flashes between us—a quiet stone that refuses to apologize for existing. He kisses back with relief and a promise and just enough restraint to make my knees think inconvenient thoughts about gravity.
“Okay, okay,” I breathe, palms on his chest, dizzy and anchored all at once. “We have to?—”
“—leave before they try to put lower thirds on this,” he finishes, forehead resting on mine, grin tilted and ridiculous. Somewhere in the tangle of cables a headset crackles and someone says, “Do we have this for the web cut?” and I pull back, laughing because of course.
“Hey!” a voice calls, half run, half gasp. The producer we bullied into ethics skids around a corner, points at the ring, then at us, then at the ceiling like he’s appealing to the gods of viral content. “Could we…just for safety…one more time into camera?—”
I step into my trainer stance without thinking—feet planted, shoulders squared, voice calm and immovable. “No retakes,” I say. “This one’s not for broadcast.”
Jason’s hand slides into mine, warm and sure. “You heard the captain,” he tells the producer, cheerfully unhelpful.
Julia materializes like a benevolent storm in a black blazer, smile polite and edged. “We’re wrapped,” she says, and it’s not a suggestion. She positions herself between us and whatever lens is still hunting for a shot. “Congratulations, by the way,” she adds, soft enough for just me. Then louder, to the hallway, “Clear a lane.”
The tech with the headset nods, chastened. Cables get nudged; a rolling case finds a wall. Jason squeezes my fingers once—we go together—and the corridor opens like it remembers we’re human beings, not programming blocks.
“Yes,” I whisper again as we walk, because it feels good in my mouth, like a word that finally found its home. Jason’s thumb traces the inside of my wrist and I feel every mile we’ve skated to get here compress into a single step that somehow holds.
The producer jogs backward in front of us like a very polite goalie trying to block a shot without padding. “Just think about it,” he pleads, palms up. “Thirty seconds to camera. Clean audio, good lighting, a quote we can?—”
“No,” I say again, not unkind, just granite. I’m careful with my tone because I don’t want to humiliate him into pushing harder. “You got the segment we came for. This is not part of it.”
He flicks a look at the ring, then at Jason, then at the empty air above my left shoulder where I assume he’s imagining confetti. “It would help us ‘shape the narrative,’” he tries, like if he says the magic phrase I’ll remember I owe the machine a cog.
“I’m good with the narrative being that two adults made a decision in a hallway and kept it for themselves,” I say. “No cutaways. No lower thirds.”
Jason backs me without breaking stride. “We’re headed out,” he tells him, friendly as a man excusing himself from a party he never wanted to attend. “Thanks for the guardrails. Keep the hotline on your web cut.”
The producer opens his mouth for one last Hail Mary. Julia beats him there.
“Team,” she says, stepping into his field of view with a smile that could slice glass. “My clients are finished. If you need more tape, you have the rehab footage and the policy language. If you need a headline, tryStation Commits to Blurring Leaked Medical Images. Otherwise, we’re done.”
A camera peeks around a rolling case like a small animal testing a campsite. Julia turns her smile on it and the operator retreats with a small, apologetic wave. “We’re clear,” he mutters into his headset. It’s possible the entire building just heard Julia say no and decided to listen for once.
The producer deflates by degrees, professionalism reasserting itself over ambition. “Congratulations,” he says, and for the first time it sounds like a person talking, not a pipeline. “We’ll send the files within the hour.”
“Appreciated,” Julia says. “And the blur memo?”
“In motion,” he promises. “Legal’s already on it.”
We pass the lit makeup mirror and I catch a flash of myself—eyes red, smile unruly, ring catching the light. The sight steals my breath in a better way than anything has all day. I look like a woman who chose something and got to keep it.
Jason squeezes my hand, reading my face without a word. “Car’s out back,” he says. “Side exit. Quiet.”
“Quiet,” I echo, and the word feels like a blanket being pulled up to my chin. We step through a fire door that should slam and doesn’t—someone catches it before it can. The alley is damp and smells like rain and cable rubber. A black SUV idles near the curb, windows fogged from the heater. Sophie’s text pings as if she’s psychic:If you’re running away to Vegas, I want a live stream of your bad decision. Also I love you.
I type backNo Vegas. Good decisions only. Love you back.My thumbs shake and I don’t pretend it’s anything but adrenaline sliding into relief.
Behind us, the producer calls, softer, “Really—congratulations.” I turn and give him a nod because kindness doesn’t cost me anything here and it might buy the next woman a little more respect. Julia plants herself in the doorway like a final boss, letting only the air through.
“Home?” Jason asks as he opens the passenger door for me.
“Home,” I say, and climb in with my hand on the ring like I’m steadying a compass, not a stone. Julia shuts the door with the precise click of a woman sealing a plan. The SUV pulls away, studio lights shrinking in the rear window until they look like any other city glow.
