Page 5 of Vegas with my Ex’s Best Friends

“What kind of design?” he asks after a while, not looking up.

“Sorry?”

“Connor mentioned graphic design. What kind.”

“Branding, mostly. Some UX. Whatever pays the bills.”

He nods. “Good UX is invisible. You only notice it when it fails.”

I set my fork down. “You have opinions about UX.”

“Most people design for ideal behavior.” He closes a tab. “People don’t behave ideally. The gap between what we expect and what actually happens—that’s where everything breaks.”

I blink. “That’s… accurate.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I expected 'nice colors.' Not a philosophy.”

“I don't have opinions about colors,” he says. “Only about what breaks.”

“Same problem in medicine,” he continues. “You build systems for the textbook cases. The textbook cases don’t show up.”

“You were a doctor.”

“ER. Eight years.”

I wait for more. He doesn’t offer it.

“What happened?” I ask, because apparently I’m getting chatty over reheated pasta now.

He pauses, hand stilling on the keyboard. “I got tired of losing people.”

A simple fact, delivered without drama. He carries it the same way he carries everything else—quietly, close to the chest.

I don’t push.

The kitchen settles again. He refills my water glass without a word when he gets up for his own. Doesn’t make a thing of it. Just does it and sits back down.

I stare at the glass for a second too long.

The people I’ve let close always wanted something in return. Credit. Gratitude. Proof I was worth the effort. Ethan didn’t even look up when he poured it. Jules is the only other person who’s ever done it without keeping score. My college roommate, the one who dragged me out of my dorm after Andrew disappeared and made me eat real food instead of just spite and sadness. She still texts me unhinged voice memos at 2 a.m. when she knows I’m spiraling. Connor has been the same way since I was sixteen and we were both sitting in our parents’ house in Connecticut trying to figure out how to live in a house that suddenly had too much room in it. I don’t let many other people past a certain point. Those two are the exceptions, and it took years to trust even them.

That does something strange and unwelcome to my chest.

Not the glasses or the precise way he takes up space. It's not even the clean jaw or the shirt still buttoned at midnight. It’s the way he listens—actually listens, like he’s weighing what I say before answering.

I am not going to make this into anything.

But I notice.

“Goodnight,” he says eventually. Laptop closed, glasses folded. He stands.

The hall is behind me, so he has to pass close.

He stops just short of me. His eyes drop to my face and hold. Not the clinical scan from earlier. Slower. Heavier. Something unnamed passes between us.

For one long second, neither of us moves.