“You would’ve told me if you weren’t.”
Simple. Certain.
I stepped back.
He stepped in.
The door closed behind him with a soft click that sounded final.
He didn’t reach for me right away. He took off his jacket, hung it on the hook by the door like he’d done it a hundred times. Then he looked around—slow, taking in the space the way he always did, cataloging exits, corners, details.
“It’s smaller than I pictured,” he said.
“It’s mine.”
He nodded once.
I crossed my arms. “I’m not ready to talk about tomorrow. Or the board. Or the story.”
“I know.”
“So, why are you here?”
He met my eyes. “Because you asked.”
The simplicity of it cracked something open in my chest.
I turned away, walked toward the living room, needing distance. He followed, footsteps quiet on the floor.
I stopped at the window, looked out at the harbor lights. They shimmered on the water like scattered coins—pretty, useless, impossible to hold.
“I deleted the reporter’s voicemail,” I said. “I haven’t answered Harper. I haven’t written the statement Eleanor wants.”
He came up behind me—not touching, just close enough that I could feel the warmth of him.
“You don’t have to decide tonight.”
“I know.” My voice came out thinner than I wanted. “But I feel like I’m running out of time.”
He was quiet for a long moment.
Then: “Time isn’t the problem.”
I turned. “Then what is?”
“You still think this is something you can fix by choosing the right words.”
I laughed once, sharp and humorless. “Isn’t it?”
“No.” He stepped closer, close enough now that I had to tilt my head to meet his gaze. “This isn’t a press release. It’s not a donor meeting. It’s you. And me. And what happens when the world sees both of us standing in the same frame.”
My throat tightened. “They won’t like it.”
“They don’t have to.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You don’t have a board. You don’t have donors threatening to walk.”
“I have things I can lose,” he said quietly. “Just different ones.”
