“I’m not tossing anything.”
“You said sacrifices.”
“Yes. Because there may be some.”
“Not your career.”
I sat back. “If the only workable solution is me stepping away from direct supervision, that may affect my job.”
“Stepping away from direct supervision isn’t the same as lighting your contract on fire.”
“No.”
“But you’d do it.”
I didn’t answer fast enough.
His face changed.
He dragged a hand over his mouth, then looked out the window. Outside, a woman in a red coat tried to manage two leashes and a paper bag while one small dog refused to move. It was ordinary enough to be cruel.
“You would,” he said.
“If the choice is between keeping you and keeping the exact shape of my position, I know what I would choose.”
His eyes came back to me, bright with anger and fear. “Don’t make me the reason you lose something else.”
“You are not responsible for my choices.”
“That sounds noble until I have to watch you clean out an office.”
“Look at me.”
He did, but it took effort.
“I’m not looking to be punished,” I said. “I’m not trying to balance a scale. If I choose a sacrifice, it will be because I believe the life on the other side is worth it.”
His throat moved. “And if I don’t want to be worth that?”
“That isn’t your decision.”
“It feels like it should be partly mine.”
I took that in. He was right. Not about choosing for me. About having to live with the result.
“You get a voice,” I said. “You don’t get a veto over what I can live with.”
He stared at me for a long moment, then blew out a hard breath. “That is annoyingly fair.”
“I try.”
“You try to be impossible in a reasonable tone.”
“Also true.”
He picked at the cup sleeve again, tearing a small strip free. Then another. I watched him notice, watched irritation cross his face, watched him put both hands flat on the table instead.
“I don’t want a trade,” he said quietly.
