My fingers flex against the documents—open, close, open, close—four times each, trying to ground myself in sensation when my brain wants to float away into hope.
Don't hope.
Hope is dangerous.
Hope will break you when it doesn't work out.
But Ms. Chen is reaching across the desk.
Her hands—warm, steady,certain—find mine and hold them still.
The contact is startling.
I can't remember the last time someone touched me with gentleness that wasn't followed by violence. Even Sage's touches, even the tender moments we've shared, have been tinged with desperation, with the knowledge that everything could fall apart at any moment.
This is different.
This is simple.
This is a woman who cares about her students, reaching out to comfort one who's clearly falling apart.
"Change is frightening as an Omega," Ms. Chen says softly. "I know that. We're taught from the moment we present that our lives are not our own—that we exist at the pleasure of others, that our worth is determined by who claims us and what they allow us to be."
She squeezes my hands.
The pressure is grounding.
Real.
"I'm not sure about these Alphas in terms of their backgrounds." Her voice drops, taking on the conspiratorial tone of someone sharing secrets. "Lawson is a name that carries weight—and not all of it good. There are rumors, stories, the kind of things that make you wonder what darkness hides behind expensive suits and perfect smiles."
I almost laugh.
If only you knew.
If only you knew that the darkness isn't hiding at all—it's right there on the surface, wearing dark hair and pool skills and the exhausted resignation of someone who's just learned their father wants them dead.
"But," Ms. Chen continues, and her eyes are locked on mine now, intense and sincere, "if they can take you out of this ruthless hell and provide you freedom into a world where you can find acceptance and fall in love with your passion once more?—"
She pauses.
Breathes.
"I approve of it."
The tears come before I can stop them.
Not sobbing—I'm too practiced at suppressing that, too trained in the art of swallowing grief before it can show—but silent streams that track down my cheeks and drip onto our joined hands.
She approves.
Someone approves.
Someone thinks I deserve to escape.
It's such a small thing.
Such a simple thing.
