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Theo grunts from his armchair, not bothering to look away from the screen. "Used to be about skill and heart. Now it's all about image and pay-per-view numbers."

Felix glances up from whatever architectural detail he's sketching, even though we agreed tonight was supposed to be a break from all courthouse campaign work. "Everything's performance now. No one knows how to be real anymore."

He's not wrong, but tonight I'm more interested in the fourth member of our little group than I am in philosophical discussions about the decline of authentic competition. Belle is curled up in the middle of the sectional, her legs tucked underher, wearing one of my old college t-shirts that swallows her whole and a pair of soft cotton shorts that make her look younger and more vulnerable than usual.

She's been living with us for two weeks now, ever since that night when Theo came home from their opera date with news about Ashwood Construction stealing our courthouse contract. Two weeks since she looked at our devastation and said "So we save it" like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Two weeks of campaign strategy sessions at our kitchen table, media interviews in our living room, and Belle transforming our house into the headquarters for the most ambitious historic preservation campaign our town has ever seen.

The guest room has become her command center, filled with petition sheets and voter registration forms, press releases and social media content calendars. Our dining room table is permanently covered with architectural drawings, historical documentation, and comparison photos showing what Ashwood's renovation would do to the courthouse versus what proper preservation would accomplish.

But she's been restless tonight, shifting position every few minutes, fidgeting with the remote, getting up to refill her water glass three times in the past hour. I've been watching her out of the corner of my eye, trying to figure out what's got her so agitated when we're finally taking a break from the campaign work that's consumed our lives for the past two weeks.

"Seriously though," Belle says suddenly, pointing at the screen where one fighter is literally backing away from his opponent, "this is painful to watch. Are they actually going to fight, or are they just going to dance in circles until someone gets dizzy and falls down?"

"Thank you!" I say, throwing my hands up. "I've been saying that for the past twenty minutes!"

"It's like watching people play patty-cake in boxing gloves," Belle continues, getting more animated. "Where's the strategy? Did he just trip over his own feet?"

We all turn our attention back to the screen, where one of the fighters has indeed stumbled slightly while trying to throw a jab that wouldn't have knocked over a paper cup.

"Jesus Christ," Theo mutters. "I've seen more aggressive conflict resolution in city council meetings."

Belle snorts with laughter. "Speaking of which, did you see Councilman Peterson's face yesterday when I presented the petition signatures? I thought he was going to have a stroke when I told him we had over three thousand names."

"Three thousand and forty-seven," Felix corrects with obvious pride. "I helped count them twice."

"The look on Ashwood's lawyer's face was even better," I add, remembering the satisfaction of watching Richard Ashwood's smug confidence crack when Belle systematically dismantled his renovation proposal in front of the entire city council.

"Mrs. Patterson alone got us sixty-three signatures," Belle says with obvious affection. "That woman is a force of nature when she's defending something she believes in."

"The eighty-year-old who volunteers with your literacy program?" Felix asks, looking up from his sketch with amusement.

"She's seventy-five, and she once made a grown man cry because he returned 'Fifty Shades of Grey' three days late," Belle says solemnly. "Mrs. Patterson doesn't mess around when it comes to things that matter to the community."

"Note to self," I say, "never cross Belle's volunteer army."

"Damn right," Belle agrees, settling back into the couch with obvious satisfaction. "We librarians stick together. Especially when historic preservation is involved."

The comfortable domesticity of the moment hits me harder than it should. Six months ago, our Friday nights consisted of Theo analyzing security footage, Felix sketching building designs, and me reviewing construction contracts. Three weeks ago, they involved desperate strategizing about how to save my biggest project from corporate destruction. Now we're sitting here making jokes about elderly library volunteers while Belle steals popcorn from the bowl I made specifically for her, taking a well-deserved break from the campaign that she's been running like a military operation.

"Fuck this," I say, pushing off the couch. "I'm making more popcorn. At least then this waste of time will involve better snacks."

"Can you add extra butter?" Belle calls after me. "And maybe some of that fancy salt you got last week?"

"The truffle salt?" I ask, already heading toward the kitchen.

"That's the one! It makes everything taste expensive and sophisticated."

"Unlike this fight," Theo adds dryly.

I'm measuring oil with the kind of precision that drives my business partners crazy when Belle appears in the kitchen doorway, her bare feet silent on the hardwood floors.

“Do you need help?" she asks, moving to lean against the counter.

"Just keeping me company," I tell her, though the truth is that having her close makes everything feel more settled. "You seemed restless tonight. Everything okay? Campaign stress getting to you?"

Belle is quiet for a moment, and I can see her weighing something in her mind. "Actually," she says slowly, "there's something I need to tell you. All of you. Something that's not about the courthouse."

"Good something or bad something?" I ask, turning to give her my full attention.