We lock eyes for half a second.
She gives me a look that says,You too?
I give her one back that says,I’m so sorry.
My heartbeat is loud in my ears as I step forward. The sound of my shoes against the floor feels amplified, like the room is mic’d for dramatic effect even though no one is filming.
I move to stand beside Camden.
He doesn’t look at me right away.
His gaze stays fixed ahead, jaw rigid, shoulders squared. He looks like he’s about to take a hit and plans to walk it off out of sheer spite.
I recognize it immediately.
Fear. Dressed up as control.
I know that costume well.
When his eyes finally flick toward mine, it’s brief. A single beat. Long enough for something sharp and unsettling to pass between us.
Oh.
You’re not okay either.
I glance at Camden again. His jaw tightens, then relaxes, like he’s consciously unclenching. His hands are folded loosely in front of him now, but there’s tension there. A barely contained energy.
We aren’t celebrities here.
We aren’t a headline or a PR solution or a fan fantasy.
We’re just two people being legally bound in a room that looks like it could host a quarterly earnings call.
“Please face each other,” the judge says.
I turn slowly, like my body is moving through water instead of air.
Camden mirrors me. For a second, we just stand there, too aware of the space between us. Too aware of the fact that we’re about to cross a line that exists mostly in my head but still feels very real.
In the corner of the room, I notice a different couple. The man in the dark coat stands a full two feet away from the petite woman beside him, like proximity itself is negotiable. She clutches a sketchbook to her chest like armor, eyes fixed on the floor.
I wonder what brought them here.
Camden shifts slightly, and that’s when I notice the slight shake in his hands.
He isn’t calm. He isn’t unaffected. The man who looks like he could snap a door in half with his bare hands is holding himself very carefully together.
“Take each other’s hands,” the judge instructs.
Camden moves first.
He extends his hand toward me, palm up, fingers relaxed like he’s giving me a choice instead of an obligation.
I hesitate.
I tell myself this is nothing. Just skin. Just nerves. Just a legal formality that will last all of thirty seconds.
Then I place my hand in his.
