I tell myself this arrangement with Violet is only professional, but every time her tone lowers I feel the old fear of being left behind clawing at my chest. She knows what it does to me when she issues those quiet orders in the loft. My body responds before my mind can argue, gaze falling, breath catching.

She keeps a hand at my spine at the drafting table, and the supply closet door is never quite closed. Our contract depends on keeping this secret, on never letting anyone see how completely I yield to her. Still I linger, waiting for the word that will drop me to my knees and prove she won't walk away.