“Don’t,” she says immediately. “Don’t grin. We agreed that never happened.”
“That never happened,” I repeat solemnly. “I’m here for entirely professional reasons.”
Her mouth opens. She hesitates, then tries again. “You don’t get to say that while looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“With those ridiculous eyes,” she snaps. “Just… don’t.”
“All right,” I say, then make a very deliberate show of turning my head to stare at the vending machine. I study it with exaggerated focus. “Is this better? I’m looking at crisps. Very respectfully.”
She snorts, then clamps a hand over her mouth.
“I repeat. This,” she says, pointing vaguely between us, “cannot happen again.”
“I know,” I say.
“Good.”
“Because we clearly don’t like each other,” I add.
She sighs. “Exactly.”
“Except,” I continue calmly, “for the one time we fucked.”
Silence drops between us, heavy and very aware of itself.
Chloe stares at me like she’s deciding whether to laugh or murder me with a plastic teaspoon.
“Right,” she says finally. “So that’s your analysis.”
“Yes.”
Her shoulders lower a fraction. Not relaxed. But less braced.
She exhales. “This was a mistake.”
“Yes,” I say again. “A thoroughly enjoyable one. Still a mistake.”
She closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them, all sharp edges back in place. “We reset. Professionally.”
“Professionally,” I agree.
Neither of us moves.
Neither of us looks entirely convinced.
“What if,” I say, carefully, “I want to argue again once the article’s out?”
Her eyes flick up to mine. Sharp. Knowing. No confusion there at all.
“That can’t happen,” she says at once. “Once it’s published, we’re done. Remember… cats and dogs.”
“That’s a shame,” I say.
She scoffs. “Is it?”
“Yes,” I admit. “Because I like arguing with you.”
