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“I want privacy,” I said. “No public instructions that sound personal. No making me explain this at the breakfast table in the main house.”

“Private unless we agree otherwise.”

“Yes.”

“What about stopping?” he asked.

“Stop means stop.”

He wrote it down.

“Not stop and persuade,” I added.

“Stop and stop.”

I let out a breath.

He drew a short line beneath the words. “We can use yellow for slow down and talk. Red for stop immediately. But ordinary words count. You don’t have to remember a special one to get heard.”

“Yes.”

“If you go quiet and I can’t tell how you’re doing, I stop and check.”

I swallowed.

“Put that in.”

He did.

The page slid a little beneath his wrist. I steadied the corner without thinking, and his fingers brushed mine.

Neither of us pulled away immediately.

It wasn’t the touch that undid me.

It was the list.

The fact that I could say no reading my messages and he could write it without asking what I had to hide. That I could require a way out and he didn’t treat it as a prediction that I would use one.

Something beneath my ribs eased so suddenly it almost hurt.

“You’re allowed to have requirements,” I said.

“I know.”

“I mean it.”

“So do I.”

He turned the page toward me.

“First one. You don’t tell me yes because you think I’ve earned it by cooking breakfast.”

I looked at the plate beside the sink.

“The eggs were excellent.”

“Still not a binding agreement.”