For my art, or twirling, or waiting to die, Sam set a meeting.

He had decided we should “look over the collaboration notes” together. A thin folder of papers sat on the low table between the three of us. Ben sat to my right. Sam sat across from me, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, scrolling through his phone between half-hearted comments about image and legacy.

I kept my eyes on Sam.

Ben’s knee touched mine under the table. Light. Casual. When I didn’t pull away, the contact stayed. A moment later his fingers brushed the side of my thigh, slow enough that it could have been an accident...