Her pen stills. The air shifts.
“Nolan…” Her voice softens, and suddenly she’s not my assistant—she’s my friend. The kind who’s been through it with me. The kind who’s scared right alongside me. “Are you sure about this?”
“What are you asking?”
She closes her planner slowly, folding her hands over the cover. “I’m asking if this isyou, or if it’s the whiplash from Chloe.”
My chest tightens.
She presses gently, “You’ve barely started to unpack that fallout. And now you’re… here. Planning constellations for someone you’ve known for what? A week? Two?”
I exhale, defensive. “Jesus, Tam. I’m not planning a proposal.”
“I didn’t say you were,” she says evenly. “But you don’t giveanyonepieces of yourself, Nolan. And now you’re handing them to a stranger wrapped in velvet and stardust.”
“She’s not a stranger.”
Tammy gives me a long, level look. “She’s not Chloe, either. And that’s why you’re so drawn to her. But don’t mistake different for safe.”
“I’m not.”
“Aren’t you?” she says quietly. “Because right now, she looks like a lifeboat.”
Her words cut deep. But instead of snapping, I sit with it. Turn it over. Taste the truth in it.
“I don’t know what this is,” I admit, voice rough. “But in that moment—she—happened. And I get you think it’s impulsive, or too fast, and maybe a goddamn disaster waiting to explode. But I’m done playing it safe. I’m doing this.”
Tammy’s eyes review me, like she’s searching for holes. Then she exhales, “Okay.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She stands. “Cosmic star map it is.”
I grin, standing too. “Thanks, Tam.”
She hesitates at the door, then glances back at me. “Just… keep your feet on the ground, okay? Stars are beautiful. But they’re far. And they burn.”
Then she’s gone.
I’m alone again, the silence enveloping me .
But I don’t care.
Because this is worth the burn.
I’m certain of it.
I grab the binder Tammy brought in and head into the meeting room. Jackson’s already there, slouched in his chair like he’s waiting for a manicure, phone in hand.
Thatcher’s assistant, Hannah flips through a neatly tabbed notebook across from him. Rishi’s queuing up the slides at the front of the room.
Thatcher enters last. Calm, collected, and—per the usual—annoyingly unreadable. He takes his seat at the head of the table.
“We’re in.” I tap the binder. “Shelby Davidson personally confirmed our slot at the Cross Island Pitchpocalypse.”
That gets everyone’s attention. Even Jackson looks up from his phone.
“We’ll be one of five agencies there. Competition will be tight,” I add, scanning the room. “We’ll need to bring heat. Full firestorm.”
