“Convenient.”
“No. Terrifying.”
That stops him.
I swallow. “I know what they want. I know what Gil expects. I know what would keep access open. I also know some things aren’t stories.”
He swallows.
“You’ll lose access.”
“Probably.”
“They’ll freeze you out.”
“Probably.”
“Then why?”
Because his mother held my hand. Because his father warned me about greed. Because he sat on porch steps like a man coming apart quietly. Because I cannot tell where the story ends and Ryan begins anymore.
I give him the answer that will not break me open in the parking lot.
“Because I don’t want to hate my own byline again.”
Ryan stares at me.
Then he nods once and walks away.
This time, I let him.
My Airbnb feels wrong when I get back. Too quiet. Too temporary. I open the laptop, try to write the lead, and delete every sentence that sounds like betrayal wearing polished shoes.
Gil texts twice.
Draft status?
Deadline’s Tuesday. Do not miss it.
I tell him I will not.
Then I lie on the couch and replay the porch, the hospital, the helicopter, the three seconds of his thigh against mine until I want to crawl out of my own skin.
At nine, someone knocks.
I know before I look.
Ryan stands in the hallway in the same clothes from the helicopter, hair disheveled, face drawn tight like he has spent the last two hours losing an argument with himself.
I open the door. “You cannot be here.”
“I know.”
“If anyone finds out…”
“I know.”
“Ryan.”