Tom freezes.
"What?"
"This morning. Meeting with Richard and the Developer. They called Thursday's presentation disjointed. Asked if there was friction between us."
Tom's jaw shifts. A muscle jumps near his ear. "What did you say?"
"That we weren't in sync. That I didn't give you enough lead time on slide transitions. That we'd already talked through it."
Tom's hands flatten against the table. "You took the blame."
"I took responsibility for my part." I pause. "Which was real. I should've coordinated better."
"Sam—"
"I'm not looking for credit." I unfold my hands. Flatten my palms on the table. "I'm telling you so you know where we stand. The partnership is on probation. We can't afford another Thursday."
Tom leans back. Runs his hand through his hair. It stands up in uneven spikes. "I'm sorry. I was trying to create space, and I made it worse."
"Space from what?"
He looks at me. Looks away. His hand drops to the table, fingers drumming once. "From this. From whatever's happening between us that isn't just work."
My chest tightens, but I refuse to let him off the hook. "So you decided to blow up our presentation instead of just talking to me?"
"I didn't mean to blow it up."
"But you did."
"I know." His voice drops, rough and entirely unguarded. "I just—I don't know how to do this, Sam. The work part and the other part."
The other part.He said it out loud.
I breathe in through my nose. The espresso grinder whirrs behind the counter. "Then figure it out. Because I can't carry this alone."
"Tom's hand slides across the top of the table. It stops three inches from mine.
"Either we're partners, or we're not," I say, my voice trembling but fierce. "I need to know which."
His fingers twitch. The fear wins out. He pulls his hand back, retreating, and rests it in his lap beneath the table.
"Partners," he says quietly.
I wait.
He doesn't say anything. Just sits there, staring at the scarred wood of the table. The door chime rings again.
Then he exhales. Slow. His shoulders pull in slightly.
"I know I'm on thin ice. I know I messed up." He stops, a heavy, complicated guilt flashing across his face. "I don't have a roadmap for this, Sam. I've never stayed long enough to need one. I've spent ten years keeping one foot out the door. Always ready to take the next flight. I almost did it again last night."
He swallows hard, his eyes dropping to the table before finally coming back to mine. The tightness around his mouth deepens.
"But I let it go. Because I want to figure this out." His voice drops, rough and completely stripped of its usual armor. "I want to figure out how to be with you."
Someone's laptop keys click in steady rhythm. The door opens and a blast of cold air sweeps across the floor.
I look at Tom. At the hair starting to dry in uneven waves. At the deep exhaustion in his eyes. At the hands hidden below thetable. At the man who just confessed to anchoring himself for the first time in his life, just for me.
