On Wednesday, a courier arrives just before noon.
He hands me a flat box and asks for my signature. Inside are updated renderings I didn’t request but absolutely needed, revised layouts, spacing adjustments, and traffic flow improvements I’d been sketching out in the margins of my notebook at midnight the night before.
Printed on heavy paper.
Tabbed. Flagged.
Perfect.
I let out a slow breath before I can stop myself. It saves me hours. Hours I didn’t have.
Hours that would have come out of my sleep.
I hate that I’m grateful.
I hate that I’m starting to feel… supported.Seen.
Hate that, even though we don't know each other, he seems to know exactly what I need.
Thursday, nothing happens.
No delivery.
No coffee.
No quiet intervention smoothing the edges of my day.
And it takes me until mid-afternoon to realize I’ve been waiting for it.
That realization is heavier than anything he’s done so far.
Because it means somewhere between Monday and Wednesday, my body started adjusting. Started anticipating relief. Started factoring him into my mental math without asking permission.
I catch myself checking my phone, and I don't really know why.
That night, on the train home, exhaustion settles deep in my bones. The car is crowded. Loud. Someone’s music leaks through cheap headphones. A man bumps my shoulder and doesn’t apologize.
I wrap my arms around myself and think, unbidden...This would be easier if he were here.
The thought scares me enough that I push it awayhard.
I don’t need saving.
I don’t need a billionaire quietly rearranging my life from a distance.
I’ve survived worse without help.
And yet.
When I unlock the apartment door and step inside, it's quiet, and Mom's bedroom door is closed. Em’s notes are spread across the table, colour-coded and meticulous.
For the first time in a long time, nothing feels like it’s actively on fire.
I sink down onto the couch and let my head rest back.
I think about Julian North.
Not his offer. Not the contract.
