“She’s good at her job,” I say quietly. “She’ll find a story whether it’s real or not.”
He looks at me then, sharp and steady. “You didn’t tell her anything, right?”
The question stings, even though I know he doesn’t mean it that way. “Of course not.”
His shoulders drop, tension easing just a little. “Sorry. I just—” He drags a hand through his hair. “They twist everything for clicks. It’s exhausting.”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “I noticed.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The muted TV flickers across his face, painting him in soft blues and grays. He looks tired — the kind of tired that sinks into bone. And for the first time all day, I let myself admit it: I’m tired too.
I should go straight to bed. It’s late, the restaurant smell is still in my hair, and my feet ache from a ten-hour shift. But my brain won’t let go of the noise — the whispers, the headlines, Anya’s too-bright smile. So instead, I curl up on the far end of the couch with my phone, trying to scroll the restlessness away.
Leo’s still watching the muted TV, half-slouched, his hand absently rubbing the back of his neck. We haven’t said much since I got home. The kind of silence that feels less like distance and more like fragile peace.
Finally, he says, “You shouldn’t have to deal with that crap.” His voice is low, rough. “People talking, reporters showing up — it’s not your problem.”
I stare at the screen, pretending to read something. “Kind of is, though. You’re news, Leo. You could breathe wrong and someone would spin it into a headline.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh. “Yeah, well, they’ll get bored eventually.”
I glance at him. “You really believe that?”
His jaw flexes. “No.”
There’s a heaviness in his tone that makes my chest ache. He’s used to it — the scrutiny, the pressure, the way everyonethinks they own a piece of him. But now it’s bleeding into my world, my kitchen, my name whispered in someone else’s story. I don’t know how to separate from it.
“It’s exhausting,” I admit softly. “Being around someone who’s always… watched. Like every move could be proof of something.”
He turns toward me, eyes shadowed in the flicker of the TV. “Then don’t let them get to you. They don’t know anything real.”
I want to believe that. I really do. But the problem is,wedon’t even know what’s real right now.
Before I can answer, my phone buzzes. A voicemail notification pops up, the contact name sharp and unwelcome:Asshole.
The air leaves my lungs.
Leo glances over. “You gonna get that?”
“No.” My voice comes out too fast. I lock the screen, but the preview text still burns in my head — the automated transcription catching just enough to make my stomach turn.
We both know you were better with me. Stop pretending you’ve moved on. You’ll come back — you always do.
My hand shakes as I set the phone face-down on the coffee table. The room feels suddenly too quiet, too bright. Leo’s watching me, brow furrowed, like he’s trying to decide whether to ask.
“Everything okay?”
“Fine.” The word cracks. I force another. “It’s nothing.”
He studies me for a second longer but doesn’t push. The TV light flickers across his face, and I focus on that instead of the ache crawling up my throat.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned tonight, it’s that pretending is easier than explaining — and safer than being seen.
Chapter 10
Pressure Cooker
Leo
