She opens her laptop.
I sit back in my chair, watching her scroll through our presentation mock-up like we’re strangers.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
I click my tongue.Whatever.
We go through the slide deck. Talk about load-bearing estimates, wind flow ratios, impact reduction over time—and through it all, Delilah’s tone is clipped, professional. Distant.
When I make a joke about a structurally unsound love triangle, she doesn’t even crack a smile.
I close my laptop. “Alright.Whatisgoing on?”
She doesn’t look up. “Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
Now she looks up.
“Is this about your mom?”
She glares at me which is enough warning to drop it.
“No.”
“Fine, you’ve been off since Thanksgiving. Did something happen there?” I ask. “Because if my mom quizzing you about sustainable insulation techniques traumatized you, I can file a formal complaint.”
That earns me a flicker of amusement. Then it disappears just as fast.
“I’m just busy,” she says.
I nod slowly, like if I do it slow enough, I might start to believe her.
We open up the project files and dig into the next stage of revisions. We’re two weeks from presenting and we still haven’t finalized the energy system schematics.
Delilah adjusts the wind-flow calculations. I map out the solar array integration. We work well together. Always have.
And yet… today, she feels miles away.
“I think we should lose the spiral,” she says, tapping her screen. “It’s adding too much weight to the central platform.”
“But it’s the centerpiece.”
“It doesn’t serve the design. And if it’s going to collapse under a simulated stress load, it’s not worth keeping.”
I watch her face. Focused. Unreadable. She’s not even looking at me—just the numbers.
She’s right, and I know it, but I still want to argue. Just to get a reaction out of her.
“Fine,” I say eventually. “But I want it on record that Imournedthe loss of the spiral.”
That gets the barest twitch of her mouth. Not quite a smile.
We work in silence after that. Not the good kind, either. The kind that feels like someone’s holding their breath. When we finally close our laptops, the table between us is littered with notes, half-eaten food, and tension.
I lean back in my chair and stretch.
