The paper sits on the desk between you, ink still crisp. Callum wrote it by hand - every rule, every expectation, every boundary mapped out in steady, deliberate strokes. It's nothing like you imagined when you first knocked on his door, burned out and barely holding together, asking a near-stranger to just... take the wheel. He took you seriously. That was the part that undid you. Now he's watching you read it, pen tapping once against the wood. The room smells like coffee and cedar. His expression gives nothing away - no pressure, no impatience. Just quiet certainty. The pen rests near your hand. All you have to do is sign.