I watched his hands smooth the paper flat.
“Proud of you,” he said, his eyes meeting mine.
My mouth went dry.
Still, after all this time, there were words I had heard so rarely that my heart didn’t know what to do with them when they came without a price attached.
Proud of you.
Not because I made him look good.
Not because my work benefited him.
Not because he could use it, claim it, polish it into his own reputation.
Just proud.
I leaned my hip against the table. “You haven’t even seen the updated plans yet.”
“I saw you fight for them.”
“That’s different.”
“That’s the part I’m proud of.”
The theater project had become the first major contract under Holland Hart Studio. A full restoration of a small historic performance space two blocks from the lake, all velvet seats, faded plasterwork, and stubborn structural surprises. The theater restoration had become the first major contract under Holland Hart Studio—a full tear-down of a small historic performance space two blocks from the lake, all velvet seats, faded plasterwork, and stubborn structural surprises.
Every past version of myself felt present in that room, as if they'd all been walking toward this project. The girl who learned blueprints in silence, the wife who mistook endurance for loyalty—they had brought me here, to this moment, where I could finally do the work on my own terms.
Not as his shadow.
As myself.
I pulled the updated title block from the bottom of the permit set and ran my fingers over the printed letters.
Holland Hart Studio
Founder and Lead Designer: Holland Hart
I used to think being seen would feel loud.
It didn’t.
It felt steady.
Finn came to stand behind me, not crowding, not taking over, just there. His warmth settled at my back. His hand found my waist.
“You okay?” he asked.
I nodded.
Then pressed my lips together until the urge to speak passed.
Then laughed, because both were true.
“I keep thinking I’m going to wake up.”
His thumb moved once against my sweater. “And if you do?”
