Slow.
Taking inventory.
My hoodie. My hair. My face.
Lingering just a beat too long—like she’s measuring something.
“And then,” she continues lightly, pushing off the wall, “you disappear for a few days…”
A step closer.
“…and come back with a millionaire father.”
Her lips curve.
It almost looks like a smile.
Almost.
I lower the cup slowly, setting it on the counter with more care than necessary.
“I didn’t plan that,” I say.
My voice is even.
But I can feel the tension coiled in my chest.
“I didn’t plan any of this.”
She hums softly, like she’s considering that.
Then takes another step.
“But it happened,” she says.
A beat.
“And now we’re here.”
Silence stretches between us.
Thick.
Pressurized.
The hum of the lights suddenly feels louder. The faint echo of sneakers squeaking in the main gym filters in under the door.
“I didn’t want this to be a thing between us,” I say.
And I mean that.
“I didn’t want us to be… this.”
She tilts her head slightly.
Studies me.
Really studies me.
