Strictly companionship.
PDA in public spaces only—not behind closed doors.
Start and end of dates clearly defined.
Nothing romantic. Nothing messy.
The terms were a version of safety I’d learned to put on paper.
He skimmed the pages, nodding at a few, frowning at others. Then he paused, reached for the pen beside my cup, and drew a line through one of the clauses.
My stomach tightened. “Is something wrong?”
“You’re leaving yourself too exposed,” he said, eyes still on the page. “This part—about touch—it’s too vague. It doesn’t protect you.”
He rewrote the line in a few short strokes. I leaned forward to read it.
Physical contact must be explicitly initiated and consented to by me, verbally or in writing, at the time of occurrence.
It was legal. Precise. Ironclad.
He slid the folder back across to me. “That version holds up.”
I blinked, surprised. Not by the correction—but by the fact that he’d amended it in my favor.
Before I could respond, he reached into his briefcase again and pulled out a second stack of papers—thicker, more formal—and set them on the table.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“My terms,” he said. “Standard NDA.”
I raised a brow.
“You can’t disclose anything about me, this arrangement, or who you really are,” he said. “And in return, I won’t say anything to your friends. Once it’s over, it stays between us. For good.”
I picked up the pages, flipping through them slowly. The language was dense but clear. Professional. Binding. And when my eyes landed on the payment line, the rest of the text faded away.
The number was staggering. The same one he’d thrown out at the hotel the night we’d met, yet seeing it in black and white made something twist in my chest.
Guilt.
That old, familiar voice slid through my mind—quiet, cruel, the one that always knew where to cut deepest.You’re not worth it,it whispered.Your time, your presence… you’ll never be worth that much.
I swallowed hard and shifted in my seat. Taking this kind of payment felt… uncomfortable. But it would give me something I’d never had before—stability. A little breathing room. The freedom to not panic every time I felt a twinge in my side or something in my apartment broke, knowing I didn’t have insurance or a safety net to catch me if things went wrong.
I wouldn’t have to worry about my car dying in the middle of a shift or missing a week of work and wondering how I’d cover rent. I’d have a cushion. Something soft to land on when life inevitably got hard.
I’d never again sit in a dark apartment, weighing impossible choices over the cost of diapers.
If Dean had that kind of money to burn, I might as well be the one holding the match.
I reached for the pen on the table, but he stopped me, sliding a sleek blue one across instead. “Use this,” he said. “Always sign in blue—it’s easier to tell it’s real.”
The comment caught me off guard—not because of what he said, but because it sounded like he was looking out for me. Like he cared in some small, deliberate way he didn’t want to admit.
I signed my name before I could think twice. “Anything else?” I asked, pushing the pages back toward him, suddenly desperate to leave.
“I sent a form to your email,” he said. “I’ll need it completed before the weekend.”
