"Same time next week?"
"I'll text you." He hesitated. Something flickered across his face—the mask slipping, just for a moment. "Sloane..."
I waited.
My heart was pounding.
Whatever he was going to say, he thought better of it. The mask settled back into place.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For agreeing to this."
"Thank you for trusting me with it."
I left before the silence could become something else. Before I could do something stupid like reach across the table and touch his hand.
Before I could ask questions I had no right to ask.
I walked to my car on autopilot, replaying the conversation, trying to find my footing.
I was going to be working with Garrett Stone for months. Seeing him regularly. Sitting across from him while he looked at me with those eyes that saw too much.
This was a terrible idea.
But God help me, I was going to do it anyway.
I was halfway home when my phone buzzed.
I pulled over. Checked the screen.
Garrett.
Same time next week works. Thank you for giving Engine 295 a chance.
I stared at the message for a long time.
The professional response would be something brief.Sounds good.Or just a thumbs up. Keep it businesslike. Maintain the distance.
Instead, I typed:
You're welcome. We'll figure this out. Together.
My thumb hovered over the send button.
Together.
I hadn't let myself use that word in eight years. Not about him. Not about anyone. It meant partnership. It meant trust. It meant letting someone close enough to hurt you.
I hit send before I could talk myself out of it.
The response came thirty seconds later.
Together.
Just the one word. An echo. A confirmation.
I sat in my car on a side street in Brooklyn, staring at that single word on my screen.
I knew what this feeling was. I'd spent eight years learning not to name it — not in therapy, not in journal entries, not in the dark when my defenses were down.
