Maybe this isn’t romance.
Maybe it’s infrastructure.
And infrastructure is what keeps buildings from collapsing.
I pace the length of the room, heels soft against the carpet, trying to outrun the feeling that my life is being quietly reorganized without my permission.
I stop near the window and press my forehead to the glass. It’s cool. Solid. Unbothered by my internal spiral.
I turn back to the table.
Sasha is watching me carefully. Manny hasn’t moved. Noah is already annotating something.
“You’re not forcing me,” I say slowly. “But this is the option you all agree on.”
Sasha doesn’t flinch. “We're providing you the safest option.”
I lower myself back into the chair.
The contract waits patiently in front of me.
I picture Camden again.
Not the highlight reels or headlines.
The man in that room who looked like he’d rather be tackled by a linebacker than sit through another second of that meeting. The man who didn’t smile at me. Didn’t lean in. Didn’t try to charm me.
A man who looked rigid. Miserable.
Oddly enough, that helps.
I rest my hands on the table and take a slow breath.
No one moves. No one interrupts.
Sasha reaches for the pen and slides it toward me, slow and deliberate. She doesn’t push. She doesn’t rush. She lets it stop just short of my hand, like this still belongs to me.
Choice. Or the illusion of it.
I stare at the pen.
It’s ordinary. Black. Lightweight. The kind you get in a pack of a dozen. There’s nothing dramatic about it, which feels wrong considering it might be the most consequential object I’ve touched in years.
I pick up the pen.
It’s warm from Sasha’s hand.
“This doesn’t mean I trust him,” I say.
Sasha’s mouth curves faintly. “It means you’re protecting yourself.”
I sign.
Just my name. Nothing fancy. No flourish. The letters look steadier than I feel.
The sound of the pen scratching across paper is louder than it should be.
When I’m done, I set it down carefully, like it might explode if I’m careless.
