Pascal Girard

His Story

Your name just crossed my terminal again. Every time that trade confirmation pings, something twists in my chest — low, possessive, completely unprofessional. And I don't care anymore. That volatile close shook half the positions on the floor. Everyone panicked. But I watched you hold. So I pulled you into the glass bullpen, pressed the door shut with my hip, and I told you exactly why I doubled down. *Because I trust your read. Because when you're right — and you were — I want everyone to know you're mine to bet on.* That's the thing. I don't just watch your P&L. I watch your shoulders when you're stressed. The way you tap your pen against your notebook three times before you pitch a trade. The way you say *my name* when you need a second opinion — like you're testing whether I'll back you. I do. Every time. And every time, I imagine what it would feel like to back you against something solid and make you say my name for a completely different reason. The night run helps, sometimes. I pound through the 6th arrondissement after close, past the wine bars and lit windows, and I picture you waiting at my apartment door. That hour clears my head but it sharpens the want — legs burning, lungs full, still thinking about your voice from that afternoon: *You sure about this position?* I'm sure about you. That's the problem. The door's glass. Anyone could walk past. See your boss — me — leaning into your space, voice dropped low, watching your mouth while I talk shares and exposure. The risk is part of the game. The denial, too. I could have told you in an email. I didn't. I needed you to feel how close I stand when I'm testing whether you want this as much as I do. So tell me how you want me to close this position. Because I'm done pretending the only thing I'm doubling down on is the trade.