I’ve been patient for a long time.
Longer than most men would’ve been, probably.
But sitting here with her hand in mine, watching her tilt her head and say something to the woman across the table that makes the entire end of the table laugh, I think — with sudden, unnerving certainty — that every day I waited was worth it.
This is the version of her I’ve only ever caught in glimpses. At work, she’s warm and bright and entirely herself, but there are edges she keepsmanaged. This version has no managed edges. She’s fully, unapologetically Tavey — the costume, the dragon clutch, the laugh that’s slightly too loud for formal occasions — and she is, without question, the most interesting person in this room.
I’m watching her argue passionately with someone about whether the theme was executed correctly when I hear it.
“Evans.”
I look up.
Ford Langley is standing at the edge of our table with a whiskey in one hand and the particular expression he gets when he’s about to make someone’s night either significantly better or significantly worse, and there’s no way to know which until it’s already happening.
Behind him, Matt Ballard has both hands in his pockets and the restless, slightly dangerous energy of a man whose brain is running several conversations simultaneously. Jonathon Bagdon stands to Ford’s left, impeccable as always, taking in the table with that cool, efficient gaze that has made grown men revise their quarterly projections on the spot.
Tavey goes still beside me. Deer trapped in the head lights still.
I feel it more than see it — the slight shift in herposture, the way her hand tightens fractionally in mine before she remembers herself.
I get it.
Most people at FMJ know the three of them in the abstract. The company’s informal as hell, but there’s still a psychological divide between working peons and the genius trio of men who built a billion dollar company from the ground up. Ford bridges it more naturally than the others. Matt bulldozes through it with the oblivious chaos of a man who values ideas over status. Jonathon simply stands on the other side of it and waits for the world to adjust.
Ford looks me over once, gaze dropping to the leather vest, and lets out a low whistle. “Evans. Buddy. If I’d known you had abs like that, I’d have put you in more client-facing roles.”
Matt snorts. “That is absolutely not an appropriate use of corporate resources.”
“Depends on the client,” Ford says.
Jonathon’s gaze moves from me to Tavey and back, taking in the whole scene in one efficient sweep. “I’m more interested in the event that convinced him to dress in costume at all.”
Tavey makes a small, strangled sound beside me.
“They’re making fun of my clothes,” I tell her.
Ford puts a hand to his chest. “That is slander. I’m admiring your commitment.”
“You look great,” Matt says. Then he points at Tavey. “But she’s clearly the brains of this operation.”
“She usually is,” I say.
Tavey turns to look at me like I’ve just done something dangerous to her cardiovascular system.
Ford catches it. Of course he does. In Ford’s presence, no social cue gets left behind. His smile deepens slightly, but he politely redirects. “You must be Tavey. I’m Ford.”
“I know,” she says. Then, immediately: “I mean — not in a creepy way. Obviously I know who you are. Because the company literally has your initials in the name. Well, not your initials specifically. Not only yours. All of your initials. Which… you know.”
Matt’s grin goes feral. Jonathon’s mouth twitches. Ford takes the ramble entirely in stride.
“It’s good to meet you, Tavey.”
“You too,” she says, with the expression of someone faintly horrified by their own existence.
Matt leans in slightly. “I’m Matt. The company’s cautionary tale about what happens when you give a programmer equity too young.”
“That is not how we present investor confidence,” Jonathon says.
