Leo doesn’t flinch. Just watches me, like he’s waiting for me to realize something he already knows.
“I have enough shit going on in my life,” I say, voice clipped. “Idon’t need you, or anyone for that matter, trying to figure me out like I’m a riddle to be solved between lectures.”
He smirks. “You’re assuming I’m trying.”
“Oh, please. You’re practically vibrating with it.”
“That might be the caffeine.”
“Sure. Let’s blame the double espresso and not your fragile male curiosity.”
He tips his head, amused. “So you do have a sense of humor.”
“It’s buried under layers of trauma and a spreadsheet fetish, but yes. Occasionally it comes out.”Did I just make a sex joke in front of a Tinder whore man child? Jesus, take the wheel.
Leo grins and leans forward. “Good to know. I’ll add that to the file.”
“You have a file?”
Smirking, he taps his pen to his temple. “Mental one. For departmental productivity.”
“Right. And how am I scoring?”
He pretends to think. “Somewhere between ‘knows her shit’ and ‘has bite.’ Jury’s still out.”
I give him a look. “Well, if you want a more comprehensive and accurate report, maybe update your attitude and stop yelling across the pod like I’m your grad student.”
He smiles wider. “You’d make a terrible grad student.”
“Damn right I would.” I start to turn away, but something in his expression changes—subtly, just enough to stop me.
“So, that’s it?” he asks, voice softer now. “You’re just, what? Done with that whole life?”
I look at him. Really look. His tone isn’t smug. It’s not even mocking. It’s earnest. Curious. A little too curious.
“Like I said,” I say, arms folding before I can stop them, “I don’t know you. You don’t know me. We have mutual friends, but that doesn’t mean we have to be pals.”
His eyebrows rise, but I don’t give him a chance to respond.
“I have enough shit going on in my life without worryingabout your opinion of me. You look at me and see some woman who up and abandoned her husband? Great. Think that. I could not give a single fuck less.”
I step fully into his office now, tone flat, delivery razor-sharp.
“And I look at you and see a thirty-five-year-old divorcee hiding behind sarcasm, a chiseled jawline, and a rotating carousel of Tinder hookups. Super. Enjoy that. Remember to wrap it before you tap it.”
“You think my jawline is chiseled?” he smirks, turning his head like he’s modeling for a fucking cologne ad. “You like what you see?”
“Oh, sweetheart,” I deadpan, “I’ve seen sharper angles on a soggy waffle fry.”
He chuckles, low and amused. “Brutal.”
“Accurate.”
Leo leans forward, elbows resting on his desk, the smirk still playing at the corner of his mouth. “So, not a fan of sarcasm, chiseled jawlines, or Tinder hookups. Good to know.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t a fan,” I say, turning on my heel. “But I don’t have time for them. Also, go to therapy.”
I’m once again halfway out the door when I hear him mutter behind me—just loud enough to be heard.
