Of course he remembers my order. Like he didn’t just call me in on a Friday night.
But that’s Dom. Thai food while destroying my weekend. Small kindnesses while taking everything else.
It’s why I stay.
He’s morally grey, but he remembers. And somehow that’s enough to keep working until midnight on a Friday.
“How’s progress?”
I gesture to the organized stacks of documents, the witness folders, the growing index. “I’ve made a dent.” Barely.
He nods. “Good. I’ll be in my office. Come find me when you’re finished.”
He pauses. Halfway turned.
“How’s your dad?”
My face is already moving. Smile assembling itself like muscle memory.
“He’s doing better.” The hopeful expression slides into place. “And the puppy is getting so big.”
Dom glances at his phone. “That’s good. Companionship.”
“Oh my God, he’s so cute!” The squeal comes out automatically, practiced. My face hurts from smiling this big. “Purebred wiener dog. Brown and so soft—I’m completely jealous. I just want to go visit and steal him.”
My jaw aches. Not just sore—it throbs. I roll it, feeling the tension radiate up to my temples. Five years of this performance. Five years of smiling so hard my face hurts.
And it gets easier every time.
My father has been dead for fifteen years. But I can see Winston so clearly I could paint him.
“He’s been so good for Dad’s spirits,” I continue, because Dom’s still standing there, waiting for more. “Keeps him active, you know?”
I add a little laugh. The one I use when clients visit. High and light and completely fake.
Dom smirks. “I’ll be sure to send a puppy gift package.”
Of course he will. And it’ll go to my mom, who finds the whole thing as absurd as I do. Except she doesn’t have to look Dom in the eye and lie about her dead husband every week.
Dom pulls out his phone. Glances at it. Types something. Sends it.
He never texts. Dom calls. Always. Says texting is for teenagers and cowards.
But he’s texting someone now.
He pockets the phone and heads for the elevator without another word, leaving the scent of expensive cologne and Thai food.
I let the smile drop the second he’s out of sight.
I open the container and eat while I work, scrolling through witness statements with one hand, chopsticks in the other.
Alex would steal bites. Claim she’s sharing my dinner while eating half. I’d pretend to be annoyed. Then she’d read my fortune from the sriracha bottle pattern.
The building settles around me. Old buildings do that. Creak and groan and shift.
The stacks are too quiet without her.
Not the way it’s quiet without Amber—that’s just professional absence. This is different. Alex fills spaces. Her voice, her laugh, the way she humsNever on Sundaywhen she’s concentrating.
