I didn't tell Jordan right away.
I spent the rest of Thursday in a kind of controlled daze, drafting emails to the Ironclad's media relations office, confirming logistics, double-checking my equipment list, doing everything in my power to keep my hands busy enough that I didn't have to sit with the actual weight of what Monday's flight meant. It worked, mostly, until the workday ended and there was nothing left to organize.
Jordan came by my flat that night with takeaway and the specific gentle attentiveness he always brought after a hard week, setting containers out on my counter with the careful, unhurried movements of someone who'd never once had to fight for anything in his life and had, as a result, developed an almost professional talent for making other people feel taken care of.
