His knee started bouncing under the table. He noticed when it hit the metal support with a soft clank, winced, and pressed his heel down. I wanted to put my hand over his knee. I didn’t. Not here. Not because I was ashamed, but because we were practicing the discipline we had claimed to want.
He saw me stop myself.
The look he gave me was tired and grateful and frustrated all at once.
“I hate this part,” he said.
“I know.”
“I hate sitting across from you like we’re negotiating a sponsorship deal.”
“I know.”
“But I also like that we’re not pretending.”
“So do I.”
He looked at the shredded cup sleeve, gathered the pieces, and shoved them into the empty tea cup. “If ownership says no?”
“We ask what no means.”
“That’s such a coach answer.”
“It’s the only answer I have. No to the relationship? No to the reporting structure? No to secrecy? Those are different.”
“And if their solution hurts one of us?”
“Then we decide whether we can live with it.”
He was quiet for a while.
The coffee shop hummed around us. Milk steaming. Chairs scraping. A low conversation near the door about someone’s kid refusing to wear boots. Life continuing in public while ours tried to become something that could survive being seen.
Jace reached across the table.
It was a small movement. Barely more than his fingertips touching the edge of my sleeve. Risk measured in inches.
I looked at his hand.
He started to pull back.
I caught two of his fingers under the table where no one could see.
Not long. Just enough.
His breath left him.
“Okay,” he said, barely audible.
I released him before it became careless.
“We’ll find counsel tonight,” I said. “Separate names. No team email. No team devices.”
“Then we talk to Tessa after?”
“Yes.”
“And then ownership.”
