He chuckled painfully when she called him Michelle.
"You never could," she murmured, her back still to him. "Overthinking is your sport."
"I could say the same about you."
That earned a tiny smile from her reflection in the glass.
He noticed.
That small curve of her lips, hesitant, and unwanted, but real. It undid him more than her tears could have.
"Amara," he said softly.
She didn't turn.
"Does he make you laugh?" he asked.
She froze.
When she finally looked at him, her eyes were unreadable. "You shouldn't ask questions you don't want the answers to."
He swallowed hard. "I think I already know the answer."
"Then stop asking."
He looked down at the contract folder still lying on the table. "You really signed it."
She nodded once.
He stared at the faint line of ink where her name sat printed. It shouldn't have mattered. But it did. It mattered like oxygen.
Finally, he whispered, "You always said you'd never belong to anyone again."
