“You good?” Genny’s voice comes quiet from her side of the room. She’s already dressed, spine straight, watching me like she clocked the exact second the world shifted.
“I’m deciding,” I say, voice flat.
“Deciding what.”
“Whether to burn a bridge I didn’t ask him to build.”
She lets the silence sit. A test. “Opportunity isn’t consent,” she says at last.
“No,” I agree. “It’s a debt.” The word hangs in the air, sharp and unwanted. My eyes return to the email. To the name that opens rooms and the man who makes them remember I’m there.
A single tap. Sharp. Decisive. Thank you for the confirmation. I will be there. Send, before I can calculate the cost. The choice is made. Payment comes later.
Outside the residence hall, he waits. Leaning against brick like he belongs there. Visible. Still. Occupying space until it becomes his. This morning’s edge hasn’t dulled, but the sight of him drives a different spike through my system: pure, unwelcome awareness. My pace stays even. No slowing. No speeding. A line he has to match. He falls into step beside me without a word, the gap closing from casual to deliberate. Morning traffic parts around us, curious glances and lowered phones forming a current.
“You’re still angry,” he says. A read.
“Recalibrating,” I correct, voice level, eyes forward. “There’s a difference.”
A group of guys blocks the path, laughing, forcing us tighter. His palm settles flat against my back, firm, guiding me through before the space opens again. Brief contact. Lingering effect. Heat blooms at the point of touch, a territorial claim dressed as navigation. Logged. Filed. Left unanswered.
“Recalibrating how?” he asks.
“Deciding how to collect on a debt I didn’t agree to incur.”
His fingers brush my elbow. Another adjustment. Another placement that isn’t accidental.
“You’re going to the meeting.”
“Yes.”
“You’re welcome.”
I stop and turn, sharp enough to halt him. The crowd flows around us. “Don’t mistake my attendance for gratitude, Rossi.”
A corner of his mouth twitches. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” He moves again, and this time his hand stays at the small of my back. Steady pressure. Assumption instead of asking. I allow it. Quiet answers, for now.
Outside the residence hall, he waits. Leaning against brick like he belongs there. Visible. Still. Occupying space until it becomes his. This morning’s edge hasn’t dulled, but the sight of him drives a different spike through my system: pure, unwelcome awareness. My pace stays even. No slowing. No speeding. A line he has to match. He falls into step beside me without a word, the gap closing from casual to deliberate. Morning traffic parts around us, curious glances and lowered phones forming a current.
“You’re still angry,” he says. A read.
“Recalibrating,” I correct, voice level, eyes forward. “There’s a difference.”
A group of guys blocks the path, laughing, forcing us tighter. His palm settles flat against my back, firm, guiding me through before the space opens again. Brief contact. Lingering effect. Heat blooms at the point of touch, a territorial claim dressed as navigation. Logged. Filed. Left unanswered.
“Recalibrating how?” he asks.
“Deciding how to collect on a debt I didn’t agree to incur.”
His fingers brush my elbow. Another adjustment. Another placement that isn’t accidental.
“You’re going to the meeting.”
“Yes.”
“You’re welcome.”
I stop and turn, sharp enough to halt him. The crowd flows around us. “Don’t mistake my attendance for gratitude, Rossi.”
