I turn my head and press my mouth to his hair.
He goes quiet.
So do I.
The quiet does not erase the laughter. It holds it.
For a man whose whole life has been organized around silence, laughing in bed should feel like exposure.
It does.
It also feels like air.
CALEB
"This is a relationship," I say.
Nolan looks up from the coffee I made badly and he is drinking anyway because apparently love has damaged his standards.
"Yes," he says.
One word. No flinch.
I nearly forget the next part.
We are in my kitchen on a Sunday morning. He stayed again last night. His hair is still damp from the shower. He is wearing one of my T-shirts, which is too short in the sleeves and too tight across the shoulders and doing several things to my concentration that I will not be documenting in the compliance packet.
The compliance packet.
Romance, it turns out, contains paperwork.
"I need to formalize the disclosure," I say.
Nolan sets the mug down.
The kitchen changes temperature.
"More than Alderman?"
"Yes."
He nods once, controlled. "HR."
"HR and compliance. Alderman already knows. The initial conflict disclosure is documented. The recusal is documented. But this is no longer a potential personal conflict or an isolated incident. This is a relationship."
His mouth moves slightly at the word. Not away from it. Around it. Like he is testing the shape.
"Okay," he says.
"It will be boring," I say.
"Doubt that."
"Emotionally unpleasant and procedurally boring."
"There he is."
I give him a look. "You like process when it protects you."
