My stomach did a tiny cartwheel. Steady work for months meant stability in a way the motel years had never offered. It meant perhaps a real nest in the future, an ability to save without counting every can of beans like a strategy. It also meant longer hours, larger teams, and travel that would stretch us. The tension in my chest was not fear of the work—Mark was good at what he did. It was fear of what scale and success would rearrange inside our fragile, chosen life.
“Do it,” I said simply, because my head was clearer than the ache in my gut. “We need this.”
He studied my face like a man trying to read a map and then nodded. “Okay. We get the paperwork, show up, and make as good an impression as possible.”
The week that followed was a whirlwind. Mark prepared with the quiet, obsessive
