I don’t sit.
That feels important too.
Caleb closes the door behind him and the sound lands heavier than it should. Solid wood. Old hinges. The kind of door that’s been shut on arguments before and survived them. The latch clicks into place with a finality that doesn’t need witnesses. The room smells like dust and cedar and the faint metallic edge of adrenaline that never quite leaves pack spaces. It’s a working room. Functional. Scarred by use. A table in the center. Two chairs opposite each other. Nothing decorative. Nothing soft.
He gestures to one of the chairs without looking directly at me.
I stay where I am.
It isn’t defiance. It’s alignment. Standing feels like the only honest posture left.
He notices. Of course he does. His attention has always been precise, even when he pre
