Leo stands at the edge of the crowd, hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders tight with tension. He does not approach. He does not wave. He does not try to catch my eye. He just waits, like someone who understands that this moment is not his to take.
I breathe in. Slow. Deep.
I glance at Gwen. “I am going.”
Her expression hardens instantly. “You want me to…”
“No,” I say quickly. “No. Just stay.”
She looks like she wants to argue, but she swallows it down. “I will watch from here.”
“I know.”
She reaches out and grips my wrist for a second. Quick. Firm. Grounding. “You do not owe him anything.”
“I know,” I say again. My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
I step away from the table. The moment I leave my spot behind it, I feel exposed. Like a turtle without a shell. Like the table was my barrier, my armor, and now I am just me.
I move through the crowd toward him. My feet feel heavy. My body wants to bolt in the opposite direction.
When I get within a few feet, Leo straightens as if he has been called to attention. He does not step forward. He does not reach out. He simply waits.
Respecting the boundary. Not taking.
That counts in his favor, and I hate myself for noticing.
He meets my eyes, and for a brief second, I see something raw and wrecked there. No performance. No charm. Just a man who knows he did something unforgivable and understands he does not get to argue about it.
“Tess,” he says quietly.
My name hangs in the air between us like a question, like he is asking permission to say it.
I keep my face neutral. “You said ten minutes.”
His throat moves as he swallows. He nods once. “Yes.”
I look around deliberately. Open space. People passing by. Noise. Movement. Public. Safe. No private room. No door to close. No intimacy to blur the lines. This is me protecting myself.
“Talk,” I say.
He flinches, just slightly, like he expected more. More anger. More softness. More anything.
He deserves none of it.
So, I give him nothing.
He takes a breath. “First, thank you for coming.”
I don’t react.
“I’m not here to convince you to forgive me,” he continues quickly, like he knows that’s a trap. “I’m not here to ask for that. I’m here because I said I’d listen, and because I owe you…” His voice catches. “I owe you a plan that doesn’t steal your agency.”
I hold his gaze. “And?”
“And I made it,” he says. “But it’s not mine. It’s yours. It’s built around your spreadsheet. Your model. Your timeline.”
My stomach clenches. My spreadsheet. My dream. The thing he already violated once. I cross my arms.
