"Deal."
She turned to leave, then stopped. "They're good lads, Z. Sometimes they're idiots, but they're good lads."
"I know," I said quietly.
She walked away, her heels clicking on the concrete.
I stood alone at the console.
I reached for the talkback button. My finger hovered over it.
I could just start working. I could ignore what just happened.
But the note burned in my pocket.
I pressed the button.
"Alfie," I said. My voice was steady. "Kit. Euan. Console is clear. We have fifteen minutes. Get back out here."
A pause.
Then, three distinct sounds of movement from the corridor, stumbling, hurried.
But Alfie's voice came through the stage monitors first. Not the soft, private voice. The bright, loud, golden-retriever energy voice, but laced with a relief so palpable it cracked the air.
"Copy that! Moving to position!"
They flooded back onto the stage.
They didn't look at me. Not directly.
Alfie grabbed his mic stand like it was a lifeline, knuckles white. He stared aggressively at the exit sign above my head.
Kit scrambled behind his drums, immediately busying himself with tightening a lug nut that definitely didn't need tightening.
Euan went straight to his loop station, crouching down to fiddle with a cable, putting his back to the house.
They were giving me visual space. They were keeping their eyes averted so I wouldn't feel watched.
I sat down in the high-backed chair, pulling my knees up, wrapping the scent of sesame brittle around me.
"That's a boundary," I muttered to myself.
The words felt heavy. Real.
I pulled out my phone. I bypassed the messages, the setlists, the technical riders. I opened the encrypted folder deep in my system files.
CONSENT PROTOCOL QUESTIONS
The document was a mess of bullet points and late-night panic thoughts.
? Can you negotiate instinct?
? Does biology override contract law?
I tapped a new line at the bottom. My thumbs moved quickly.
Observation: When the biological imperative said 'Invade,' they chose 'Retreat.'
