Page 8 of You Owe Me

“I’m managing my responsibilities.”

“You’re cheating on your responsibilities with someone who probably thinks ‘fiscal liability’ is a Marvel villain.”

That gets a blink, but still no real reaction. He just keeps typing, expression flat and defenses up.

He does this when I get too close, when the pressure slips through the cracks. He shuts down. Not angry. Just… closed. Locked tight.

And yeah. It hurts. Because I love him. And watching him grind himself into the ground while pretending it’s fine is like holding your breath in a room filling with smoke. Eventually, you either scream or pass out.

I sigh and push my mug away, dragging both hands through my hair.

“You know he’s going to find out,” I say softly.

“Not if they do their job right.”

“Pops already thinks you’re working too hard,” I remind him. “If he finds out you’re skipping class to fix someone else’s screw-ups?—”

“He won’t.” His voice is sharp and clipped. Defensive.

Which tells me everything I need to know.

I study him for a second. The tightness in his jaw. The lines of exhaustion under his eyes. The way his hand clenches on the mouse pad just a little too tightly. He’s unraveling. Quietly. Efficiently. Like a thread pulled at just the right angle so no one notices until the whole sweater’s a mess.

I’m not mad. Not really. I’m just tired. For him.

“Fine,” I say finally, leaning back in my chair. “But when he does the disappointed face, I’m not bailing you out.”

“You never do,” he mumbles, tearing a piece off his bagel and frowning.

“Lies,” I say. “I brought you kale chips last week.”

“That’s not a favor. That’s a hate crime.”

I roll my eyes so hard I think I might pull something. “You’re dramatic.”

He takes a bitter bite of his bagel. “You’re controlling.”

“Because you want to die via sodium bomb and I’ve decided that’s not going to happen on my watch.”

That earns me a sideways glance, but he doesn’t argue. Probably because he knows I’m right.

We fall into silence—his fingers clacking at the keys, the toaster still cooling behind us, the soft sound of morning traffic outside the window. I stare at the empty mug in my hands and wonder how someone so strong can also be so impossibly fragile underneath it all. He acts like this whole life is a game of poker he can win with enough bluffing.

But I see him.

Eventually, I glance at the clock and groan. “I need to get ready. I’ve got lunch with Bostic.”

That gets his attention. Finally. His eyes lift from the screen, focused and alert now. “Remind him I need the inspection reports for the building on 8th. He said I’d have them by Monday.”

I snort. “I’m not your assistant.”

“He owes me from poker night.”

“You say that about everyone.”

“Because it’s true.”

I push my chair back, walk behind him, and drape my arms around his shoulders. Rest my chin on the top of his head and let myself just be close to him for a second. He’s solid. Steady.And somehow always feels like home, even when he’s being an absolute idiot about his health and life balance.

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