Because they do.
Campus is already buzzing when I arrive. Volunteers moving tables. Facilities Maintenance is checking lighting. Someone arguing quietly into a headset near the auditorium doors. It’s the familiar, controlled chaos that comes with anything high-profile and donor-facing, and the familiarity steadies me.
I’m good at this.
I move through the morning on instinct, answering questions, redirecting energy, making judgment calls without second-guessing myself. By the time I reach the conference room for our final planning meeting, I feel anchored in my body again. Present. Useful.
Ellie slides into the chair beside me a minute later, coffee in hand, hair pulled back in a low ponytail. She gives me a quick smile that’s warm without being invasive.
“You look rested,” she says under her breath.
I huff softly. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It is,” she replies. “Especially this close to an event.”
The meeting starts, and for the next forty minutes, it’s all seating assignments, donor lists, and final approval on the program order. I make notes, flag a potential bottleneck near the reception area, and mentally rework the timing on the keynote as someone drones on about valet logistics.
When it wraps, people filter out in clusters, already talking through next steps. Ellie lingers, gathering her things more slowly.
“You walking back to your office?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
We head down the hall together, heels clicking softly against the polished floor. The building smells faintly of fresh coffee and something floral from the arrangements being stored nearby.
“So,” Ellie says casually, like she’s commenting on the weather. “Are you bringing a plus one?”
The question is simple. Neutral. Exactly the kind of thing people ask at events like this.
I don’t answer right away.
Ellie glances at me, not pushing, just checking in. “No pressure,” she adds. “I’m just finalizing the seating chart and realized I never asked.”
I slow slightly, considering it.
“I don’t think so,” I say finally.
“Okay,” she replies easily. “I’ll mark you solo.”
A beat passes. Then she adds, “Unless that’s a not-yet answer.”
I glance at her, amused despite myself. “You’re perceptive.”
She smiles. “Occupational hazard.”
I exhale. “I don’t want to complicate things. It’s a work event, and there are already enough eyes on it.”
Ellie nods, understanding clear on her face. “That’s fair.”
We reach my office door, and I pause with my hand on the handle.
“Out of curiosity,” she says, tone still light, “would bringing someone make it feel easier or harder?”
The question lands softer than it could have. No judgment. No expectation.
I think about Jace. About how he fills space. About how visible he is without trying to be. About the way last night ended, controlled and deliberate, with restraint chosen instead of forced.
“Harder,” I admit. “Not because of him. Just… because it turns into a thing.”
