Page 7 of You Owe Me

“Chia seeds are good for your heart.”

“So is joy. Which you’ve clearly banned from this household.”

I don’t even blink. “They’re heart healthy.”

He pulls the bag out anyway, like it’s physically paining him, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like“fucking cardboard.” He doesn’t argue anymore, which is the secret signal that I’ve won. That, and the way he starts slicing the bagel with aggressive martyr energy.

“I miss Pop-Tarts,” he mutters, more to himself than me.

“I’m sure they miss you, too,” I say. “Right up until they clog your arteries and leave you for dead.”

He pauses mid-slice to glare at me. “That’s dark.”

“That’s accurate.”

He doesn’t argue that part either. Just continues prepping his disappointing bagel while I sip my coffee and enjoy the quiet pleasure of knowing that, once again, I’ve successfully bullied my very stubborn, very sexy boyfriend into not dying prematurely. All before 8 a.m.

Domestic bliss.

Sort of.

We sit at the little table in the corner, the one we found on Facebook Marketplace for fifty bucks and swore we’d replace but never did. It wobbles if you lean on it too hard, which is honestly a pretty solid metaphor for both of us before coffee.

His whole-grain sadness sandwich lands in front of him. My sugar-coma-in-a-mug is already halfway gone. And his laptop? That gets cracked open in a hurry.

“Seriously?” I say, blinking at him over the rim of my mug. “You’re working right now?”

“It’s 7:30.”

“Exactly. You haven’t even blinked properly yet.”

“Clients in London don’t care what time it is here,” he mutters, fingers already flying across the keyboard.

I stare at him. Because of course. Of course, we’re doing this. Of course, he’s prioritizing clients over, you know, basic functioning as a human being.

“It’s Wednesday,” I remind him, trying to keep my voice light. “You have ethics class.”

“I’m not going.”

Just like that. Like it’s no big deal. Like he didn’t sit right here two weeks ago and swear to his grandfather and me that he’d stop skipping. That he’d start showing up for himself, not just his clients.

“Maverick,” I say, slowly. Carefully. Like I’m approaching a wild animal that might bite.

“I’ve got someone covering for me.” He doesn’t even look up. “Notes, recording, the whole thing.”

I freeze mid-sip.

“An IOU?” I don’t know why I ask; I already know the answer.

There’s the tiniest twitch in his jaw. A tell. He hates that I can read him this well.

“Unbelievable,” I murmur, setting my mug down a little harder than I mean to.

“You promised Pops you’d go, and you meant it. I know you did.”

“I’m handling it.”

“No,” I say, sharper now. “You’re outsourcing it. Again.”

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