"Woke up. You okay?"
Sent.
Stared at the screen.
A minute passed.
"How's the ankle? Don't walk too much."
Sent.
Another minute.
I stood, pacing in the living room. Maybe she went to work? She said she might get fired, but maybe an emergency...
I stopped at the dining table.
A neat stack of bills sat there.
My fingers clenched slowly.
I walked over, picked up the money. A hundred bucks.
Next to it, a note in neat handwriting.
"Thanks for last night. This is for the meds and other stuff. — Anna"
I stared at the note, read it once, twice.
Meds. Other stuff.
I let out a short laugh.
It echoed in the empty apartment, sounding harsh.
No woman had ever treated me like this.
Usually, I was the one who left, who controlled the game, who decided when it started, how it went, when it ended. I was the one who left money—if I ever needed to.
Now, the power had flipped.
A strange, sour feeling churned in my gut. Not just anger—something like... rejection.
Rejected by a broke little reporter, with a polite, firm hundred bucks.
I glanced at the note again.
"Thanks for last night"—so polite, like thanking a helpful stranger.
"Meds and other stuff"—what did she think last night was? A transaction? Something money could settle?
I set the note down, grabbed my phone.
"What's the money supposed to mean?"
Sent.
Stared at the screen.
