I don’t answer, because there are too many moments in my life that prove I can.
But this one feels different.
This one has Lucy’s face attached to it. Lucy’s hands. Lucy’s eyes. Her smile and laugh that I want aimed at me...
And that is… complicated.
Teller sighs again.
“I will take her,” he says. “We begin stabilization. We see if she qualifies. We do it properly.”
Relief is not an emotion I’m used to.
“Good,” I say.
“And Julian,” Teller adds, voice quieter, “if you’re doing this because you think it buys you...”
“It doesn’t,” I snap.
Teller goes silent.
The truth is, I don’t know why I’m doing this. Not fully.
I hang up before he can say something that makes me understand myself.
Lucy doesn’t call. She doesn’t ask for anything.
Which should make this easier.
It doesn’t.
By Tuesday afternoon, the contract comes back to me marked up in red and tabbed with sticky notes.
Lucy’s notes are precise. Clean. Minimal. Like she doesn’t want to waste ink or emotion.
Clause 4.2 — Cohabitation.
Define “share a bed” and what is expected physically. I will not sign ambiguous language.
I shake my head.
Not because she’s wrong.
Because she’s forcing me to write it plainly.
Because she’s forcing me to look at it as what it is: a contract that assumes access to her body without ever saying the word body.
Clause 5.1 — Children.
Timeline and consent requirements need to be explicit. No “as required.” No “as agreed.” Consent cannot be implied.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
Heat rises behind my ribs, unfamiliar, sharp.
Respect, first.
