She grabs her thin canvas bag, shoves the laptop inside, and walks to the front without checking to see if I’m done.
“I’m… I’m done,” I call, scrambling to put the mop away. “The floor’s wet.”
“I don’t care,” she mutters, already at the front door, keys in hand.
I grab my own jacket, the cheap windbreaker I bought at a corner store because my designer ones are “too much,” and follow her out.
She locks the deadbolt. The snick of it feels final. Then she turns.
We’re on the sidewalk. It’s almost six p.m. The sun hangs low, painting the city in soft, bruised light, gold and lavender. Streetlights flicker on, their pale orange glow hazy in the cooling air.
For the first time in what feels like an eternity, the Channel 5 van is gone. The gaggle of social media tourists has dissipated. The street is quiet and empty, save for distant traffic and a dog barking somewhere down the block.
It’s just… us on a quiet street corner.
Tess starts walking without a word. I fall into step beside her.
We walk an entire block. Only the scuff of our sneakers on the pavement. I can feel unspoken words screaming in my throat, building pressure, begging to be released.
“Tess,” I say finally, my voice raw.
She flinches but doesn’t stop. “What?”
“Look, I… back there. In the locker room.” I cringe as I say it, the words tasting like ash. “I am profoundly, unequivocally sorry. I crossed a line. I was…” I swallow hard. “It was completely unprofessional. It won’t happen again. I swear.”
She stops.
We’re under one of the new flickering streetlights. Her face is half in shadow, half in orange glow. I can see the tightness in her jaw.
“Yeah,” she says. “It was. Don’t… don’t do it again.”
“I won’t. Boss.” I put deliberate, painful emphasis on the last word, like I’m bricking the wall back up with my bare hands. See? I’m rebuilding the boundary. I’m being good.
She nods, short and jerky, then starts walking again.
We go another block. The silence somehow grows heavier. I’ve apologized. She’s… accepted, sort of. But the air is still vibrating, thick with what almost happened.
I can’t stand it. I need to talk, to fill the space with something other than the memory of her skin under my fingers.
My left hand is in my pockets, and with my right hand I brush the gold star sticker still firmly stuck to my sweat-damp shirt.
“You know,” I say, voice quieter, forcing a subject change before I combust. “This…” I tap the sticker through the fabric. “This is, and I am not exaggerating, the greatest honor of my entire professional career.”
She glances at me like she expects a punchline. “It’s a sticker, Leo. It cost ten cents.”
“I’m serious.” I stop walking. She takes a few paces before reluctantly stopping and turning to face me. “I got a hundred-million-dollar bonus last year. My father sent me a one-word text: ‘Fine.’”
Her expression doesn’t change, but her eyes sharpen, listening.
“When my fund hit its first billion, Julian threw a party where he…” I pause, grimacing. “I think he hired actual literal Godzilla-costumed strippers. It was… it was a brand-building event.”
A small mirthless laugh escapes me.
“This sticker. This B plus.” I swallow. “This is the first time I have earned anything. For real. In… maybe my whole life.”
Tess stares at me.
In the pooling orange streetlight, I can feel myself stripped bare, no charm, no PR armor, no quippy deflection. Just earnestness. And something sadder under it.
