"I negotiated something," he says.
"We did more than the court." Mateo's voice is low and approving. "We put parameters in writing. Confidentiality. No ceremonial claiming. No public rituals. You keep legal autonomy, Ms. Torres. The pack stands as guardians if you ask. If you don't, we step back."
Caleb slides a paper across the table. It's simple and legal-sounding: my name, his name, lines that make him a guardian on weeknights, give me veto power, tie the pack's access to a written request, and forbid any binding mate ritual without my explicit written consent.
"You're serious," I say.
"Dead serious." His eyes catch mine. Here, with fewer witnesses, he looks like someone I might have loved in another life. The pale scar on his hand catches the light like a map.
Ana reads the clauses aloud and simplifies them. "If anything goes wrong, we bring evidence. If the pack acts, it does so under your authorization. No surprises. Your custody case is safe."
She slides the paper for me to initial. The felt tip leaves a clean black line. I sign where I have to. It feels like signing my life into a new room: locks and keys arranged by other people's hands.
Tanner watches me sign. Mateo watches me sign. Caleb watches me sign. Their gazes are not ownership. They're responsibility.
We eat more out of necessity than romance. Leo's lullaby hums through the walls; he doesn't know the wrongness of the world yet. He sleeps in a room that smells like cedar and clean sheets.
After dishes, Ana pulls me aside. "Mia." It's more private than a whisper. "You can take time. You don't have to decide anything tonight."
It isn't the paper I'm worried about. It's what Caleb wants beyond what's on the page.
He comes to my side then, silent as an animal. He moves close enough that I can see the tiny flecks of sawdust in the creases of his knuckles. He sets his hand over mine on the table. The contact is a match struck in a dark place.
"I made a promise to you." His voice drops. "I asked the pack to accept terms they never liked. I told them I'd take whatever it cost me. I told them I will not let you be claimed by anyone but yourself."
His thumb draws a slow, rough circle on the back of my hand. The gesture has nothing performative about it. It is a seal. A vow that smells of the ride home and something older.
"I don't want pack politics. I don't want ritual," he says, leaning in. His breath is warm. "I want you. Not by right of pack. Not by force. By asking. By choosing."
The room shrinks to the space between us. Mateo clears his throat, pretending not to look. Tanner fidgets with a fork. Ana exhales like someone holding fragile glass.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a strip of leather—worn and softened, clearly his. He doesn't make it ceremonial. He doesn't claim it as any kind of rite. He says, simply, "This is mine. I want you to have it if you want it. If you take it, it's mine openly. If you don't, it's still mine and I wear it until you change your mind."
My mouth goes dry. The leather smells like the truck and the pasture. It smells like him.
"Will this be recorded somewhere?" I ask, trying to make a joke out of nerves.
"No." He looks like a man who would break a law for me and then make sure the paperwork supports it. "This is between you and me."
My old belief—that accepting help means losing control, and accepting love means handing over the part of myself that decides—sits on my chest like a stone. I've raised Leo on refusal and receipts and whispered promises that I'd always be enough.
And yet—there's the evidence in Ana's files, Rivera's comms, the motel receipt with my ex's fingerprints. The fact that Leo sleeps safe for the first time in months. The warmth of a man who stayed when he could have walked away.
I picture gates. My old apartment gate I still lock. The ranch gate Caleb will open for me someday, with his hand at my back. Fences are thresholds. Thresholds are choices.
I want to say yes because there's heat in this small leather strap. I want to say no because "yes" can be shouted across a council and used as a weapon. I want to say maybe because I'm a woman who knows the value of negotiation.
He lowers his voice into a place meant for honesty. "No public claiming. No pack ritual unless you ask for it. Full veto. All legal decisions stay yours. I will stand guard. I will respect the line you draw."
Everything in his confession is a raft. A raft still requires me to step onto it.
Someone laughs in the hallway, shattering the spell. I look at Ana. She nods once, gently, the way you nod when someone is about to leap.
"I need—" I start, and the word catches. I want time, to be clever and careful, to measure the future in ledger entries and bedtime routines. I want to give Leo a father who isn't a threat. I want to be more than a woman hiding in negotiation.
He covers my hand with both of his. His palms are large and honest. "Take all the time you need," he says. "You have my name, my word, and whatever protection I can give on paper."
I could say yes. I could say no. I could loop the leather around my wrist and pretend it's only protection. I could loop it and mean everything.
