The words aren’t oily, just factual, as if he’s making a case for himself in bullet points. Still, they land with a thud, and my shoulders try not to climb into my ears. If I had to compare Dr. Wallace to a book character, he’d be Mr. Collins fromPride and Prejudice. Means well, but damn. The man is so awkward it hurts.
“I’m fine, but thank you,” I say, polite and brisk, a smile neat enough to staple.
Behind him, Leo’s office door opens. His timing is suspiciously perfect. He leans casually against the frame, holding up a slim folder like it’s Exhibit A.
“Hey, Wallace,” he calls across the pod, breezy. “Didn’t you want those lecture notes from 2019? Found the whole set.” He wiggles the folder. “In my office.”
Wallace blinks, recalibrating. The offer of notes is apparently more compelling than my supply-closet muscles. “Ah. Yes. Thank you.” He adjusts his glasses and makes a beeline for Leo’s office instead.
The moment the door clicks shut behind them, I rub at my temple. Half gratitude, half exasperation.
Five minutes later, the pod is quiet again, my inbox halfway wrangled, when Leo’s door clicks open once more. He strolls out, folderless this time, and without breaking stride, deposits a sheet of paper squarely on my desk like he’s delivering campus mail. No eye contact, no pause—just a half-smile tucked into his cheek before he vanishes back into his office.
I glance down. A half sheet of printer paper, trimmed with scissors. Across the top, in his neat block caps:
INCIDENT REPORT: COPY ROOM
Date: [Today]
Reporting parties: T. Foster (hand of justice), L. Euler (face, left cheek, now better than right)
Cause: Miscommunication + Audiobook Spiciness (Category 5)
Injuries:
– Redness (cheek, L.); treated with ice + humility
– Ego bruise (V., mild); treated with apology, organizational assistance, smoulder
Corrective Action:
– New Rule implemented (No touch unless asked; see Sec. 1(a))
– Jazz hands banned (Sec. 2)
– Consent stapled to office policy (Sec. 3)
Signatures:
L. E. ___________
V. F. ___________
I shouldn’t grin at a fake, hand-written incident report delivered like contraband in a spy movie. But I do. I slide it under my planner like a ridiculous secret I’m choosing to keep.
The afternoon continues on, slowly but peacefully. I answer emails, fill out a room request for finals week. I order a box of the good paper clips because no one else will. At some point, the sun angles low enough to throw a pale bar of light across the carpet from the window across the hall and the building fully settles into that pre-break quiet I adore.
My phone buzzes again. A new text from an unknown number with a link preview. My stomach drops before my braincatches up—Chase? No. It’s Jacob Sterling’s office. The process server has confirmed delivery.
Unknown, 3:47 p.m.: Separation agreement and affidavit: served.
I stare at the confirmation, watching my name and his name sit there beside the wordservedlike it’s just a verb and not the ground shifting under my feet. A small tremor moves through me that isn’t panic, but not quite steadiness. It feels most like the after-sway when you’ve stepped off a boat.
I type back:Received. Thank you.Then turn my phone to ‘do not disturb’, lock it, and set it face down, because I’m not going to let my peace get hijacked by whatever reaction might be brewing in Moraine.
Across the pod, Leo’s laugh carries—soft and short, the kind people let out when they’re trying not to. I picture his cheek earlier today, still faintly pink, and the way he stood with his hands open, no excuses. The way he wrote “consent stapled to office policy” like a dork and a gentleman at the same time.
Today was supposed to be unbearable—the day Chase got served, the day my life tilted harder into paperwork and split assets and lawyers and divorce and all the ugly aftermath. And yet, somehow, between his terrible flirting and stupid math puns, Leo Euler managed to take my mind off the stress without even knowing he was doing it.
