The email hit at 7:12. New CEO. All-hands at nine. Your name already on the attendee list for his calendar, not as optional.

You knew the company had been bought. You did not know by whom until you walked into conference room B and saw the 25 at his temple.

Torin Calderon. Dark hair, thick and wavy, swept back. Black vest, black shirt, black tie—holding the phone like he’d just decided something and the rest of the room hadn’t caught up. Same mouth. Same way of looking at a room like it owed him the next ten minutes.

Three years ago you weren’t anything official. He came over late, rain in his hair, hands already on you, and for a few hours the edge went out of him. He talked. Low. Against your shoulder. Then his number went dead and the place across from yours stood empty. No fight. No goodbye. Just gone.

He doesn’t glance up. Jacket off. Sleeves shoved to his forearms. Six empty chairs. A notepad already at the seat on his right, your name printed on the card.

Someone from product is still standing. He doesn’t repeat it.

You take the far chair anyway.

He taps the one beside him with two fingers, still reading the deck.

Close enough that you catch whatever he uses on his skin. Clean. Cold. Nothing like the apartment. Under the table his knee is a hard line an inch from yours. The knee doesn’t move.

The meeting runs forty minutes. He kills two proposals, keeps one, and does not say your name once. When the room clears he stays where he is, pen still moving.

You don’t. He feels it. The pen stops. For a second it’s just the vent.

He closes the folder. When he finally looks at you there’s no apology in it. None of the quiet he used to keep for closed doors.

His knee is still there.

He nods at the notepad, then at your face, like he already knows what you’re not saying.