He goes. The door sighs shut, and I exhale. I press my palms to the countertop and drop my forehead to the cool metal, breathing until the strobe-light thud under my skin slows enough to be mistaken for a heartbeat. On the floor, a sad disaster of disorganized paper fans across my shoes.
Looking up, I growl, “Pull it together,” at the stapler. Sure, it is not at fault, but it is listening.
The door opens again. Leo returns with a ziplock filled with ice, wrapped in a brown paper towel and donning a blue sticky note that reads SORRY in block letters big enough to be read from space. Cute.
He takes three careful steps in, once again approaching that frightened animal. He sets the ice on the counter, then retreats to a safe distance near the paper-cutter, hands back in his pockets like he’s disarmed himself.
“I brought reparations,” he says, tone tentative. “For your—” He gestures at his own face, then my entire existence. “Everything?”
A painful laugh barks out of me. I pick up the ice and, for reasons unknown to science, press it to my cheeks one at a time. It’s cold, and it helps. I set it down, then smooth my blouse like it misbehaved. Nope. Not the blouse. Just your horny hips and ass, Tori.
“Thank you,” I say. “And I’m… I’m sorry I slapped you.”
“Totally earned.” He tips his head toward the mess of papers on the floor. “Want me to fix your paper massacre while you choose something… else… to listen to?”
I squint. “You didn’t hear?—”
“Just a murmur,” he lies so quickly I almost admire the technique. “Sounded… super… plot-driven.”
A sound escapes me that could be a laugh if I wasn’t so embarrassed. “That was… not plot.”
He holds up both hands again, playful surrender reappearing by degrees. “You’re killing my lie, Tote.”
We move around each other ever so carefully, simultaneously playing a game of “clean up” and “the friend is lava.” He crouches to gather the escaped quizzes; I restack and re-straighten until my edges line up in a way my life does not. The copier snarfs the last set of prints and spits out a neat pile with a triumphant whirr, likeSee? I told you I could do it!
When I speak, it’s once again to the stapler. “You can’t touch me from behind.”
“I won’t touch you at all unless you tell me to,” Leo says, no hesitation. “And if I ever forget that, feel free to brand my other cheek.”
That shouldn’t make me feel better. But it does, a little.
He slides the rescued stack my way. “And I know this isn’t about me, but I want you to know I didn’t mean—” He searches for the right words, brows knit. “I wasn’t trying to—whatever it felt like. I should’ve gotten your attention with a ‘hey’ and some jazz hands like a normal person.”
“Jazz hands would have been worse,” I say, and the quip fallsout before I can help it. “You in the doorway like a deranged mime? Please, no.”
His smile makes a careful cameo, small and lopsided. “So you’re saying I should not keep a white glove in my pocket for emergencies?”
I roll my eyes at him, dismissing his ridiculousness with a shake of my head.
We work. The quiet is different now—not awkward, per se, but full of things neither of us knows how to set down yet. I shove a fresh stick of staples into the stapler and watch the neat silver spine click into place. If only brains and feelings worked like office supplies. If only desire had a tray you could slide back in.
I’ll pull you out when it’s appropriate and file you away when it’s not your time to play, thankyouverymuch.
If only.
“Hey,” Leo says after a minute, gentler. “Can I ask a clarifying question that will not get me slapped?”
I side-eye him. “Proceed with caution.”
“If I accidentally make you laugh again in the next five minutes, is that allowed? Or do I need to submit a request to HR for a sense-of-humor permit?”
I snort. This man. “You are HR’s worst nightmare.”
“Incorrect,” he says. “I am HR’s favorite problem. Big difference.”
I hate how my mouth curves. I hate it and also I don’t. “You can joke,” I say, and then add the boundary I should’ve led with. “But not about this—the book and hip thing, I mean.”
He nods, sober again. “No books or hips. Understood.”
