I don’t see him at first, but I feel him. A shape at the far end of the breezeway straightens, like a pulled wire just went slack.
“Sophia.”
My name in his mouth makes something inside me crack.
He’s leaning against the stone pillar, arms loose at his sides, as if he forced himself not to pace. As soon as he sees my face, his posture changes—broad chest lifting, attention locking in like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.
“Hey,” I say. It comes out thin.
He crosses the space between us in a few long strides, then stops just close enough that I could step into him if I wanted.
“What happened?” he asks quietly. Not demanding. Not hungry for details. Just… there.
“I answered.” My voice wobbles. “Every question. Even the ones that made me want to set my laptop on fire.”
His jaw tightens. “Did they listen?”
“I think so.” I laugh, a brittle little sound.
He studies me. His gaze is deep, searching, moving over my shoulders, my hands, the twitch at the corner of my mouth.
“You stood,” he says finally.
“I sat,” I correct, because my brain is ridiculous.
“You stood,” he repeats. “Inside. In here.” He taps his own sternum lightly. “That is what matters.”
My first tear surprises me.
One second my eyes are just burning. The next, warmth spills over my lower lid and tracks down my cheek.
“I hate crying,” I whisper.
“I know,” he says.
Another tear falls. Then another. My breath does that embarrassing stutter thing—inhale caught halfway, exhale breaking apart.
“I told the truth,” I say. “I did exactly what we practiced. I explained everything. Even remembered to talk about power dynamics instead of just saying ‘she stole my work’ like a kid complaining about crayons. And still I feel like I just handed my future to a machine that might spit it back out shredded.”
He steps closer. Close enough now that his heat wraps around me, that his chest rises and falls in a rhythm my nervous system automatically tries to sync to.
“You did your part,” he says. “You fought your fight. The rest is theirs.”
“I’m so tired,” I say. My voice cracks on the last word. “I’m tired of having to justify my existence to people who think my brain is… defective or dramatic or… convenient when it benefits them.”
His hands come up.
Not grabbing. Not overwhelming.
One settles at the curve of my jaw, callused thumb brushing the track of a tear. The other hovers for a second at my shoulder, asking silent permission.
I nod.
His palm lands, warm and steady, fingers curving around the muscle like he’s protecting it from collapsing.
“Listen to me,” he says, voice low, rough in the way that means he’s holding his own feelings like a shield so mine don’t have to protect his. “You went into their little box. You used their words, their rules. You did not vanish. That is victory.”
“They might still—” My breath hitches. “They might still decide it’s easier to side with her.”
