"Sign here." The registrar's pen floated toward me like a verdict. "I will," I said. Sterling watched over the counter with his hands folded. His face was a map of everything we'd stopped saying. The room smelled of paper and antiseptic. The clerk cleared her throat. "Are you sure?" she asked. "Yes," I said again. Sterling's eyes flicked to mine. No apology. No plea. The silence between us had been negotiated and signed long before this room. He touched the pen, then stepped back. The registrar stamped the papers with a loud thud that sounded obscene. "Congratulations," she said in a professional tone that made both of us smaller. I stood before him, the papers in my hand. He tried to smile; it looked practiced. I did the only thing my mouth wouldn't rehearse. I slapped him. His cheek turned red. The sound landed harder than I expected. People in the hall glanced in. Sterling's jaw tightened. He had trained himself to be above scenes, but he blinked. He tasted humiliation and anger and something fancier—pride—crossing his features all at once. "Don't," he said. "Don't what?" I asked. He opened his mouth and closed it. He was the man who'd taught students to wait for clearance, who'd been in control of schedules and engines and press conferences. He was suddenly small. I folded the papers and walked out. "Wait," he called after me. I didn't turn. I walked