They make it back to the office in silence.

Not the usual kind—the tense, biting quiet filled with unspoken insults—but something thinner. Fragile. Like if either of them says the wrong thing, it’ll snap.

She walks a step behind him.

He notices.

He pretends he doesn’t.

When they re-enter, a few heads lift. Curious glances. Subtle, but not subtle enough. She straightens immediately, shoulders pulling back, mask slipping back into place like muscle memory.

Too fast.

Too practiced.

He exhales through his nose and drops into his chair. “Sit down,” he says without looking at her.

“I know how chairs work.”

“Then use one.”

A pause.

Then the quiet scrape of her chair as she obeys.

For a while, there’s only the sound of typing. Hers is slower than usual. Hesitant. She keeps stopping, fingers hovering above the keys like she’s forgetting what comes next.

It’s irritating.

It shouldn’t be irritating.

“Wrong column,” he says suddenly.

She stiffens. “I didn’t ask—”

“Third table. You’re inputting it wrong.”

A beat. Then she glances at her screen, frowns… and fixes it.

“…Thanks,” she mutters, like the word tastes unfamiliar.

He doesn’t respond.

Minutes pass.

Then—“Did you mean what you said?”

He doesn’t look up. “I say a lot of things.”

“About me not being able to handle this job.”

His fingers still on the keyboard.

Slowly, he leans back, eyes sliding toward her. “Are you asking because you think I’ll lie to make you feel better?”

“No.” Her voice is quieter now. “I’m asking because I want to know if you actually believe I’m that useless.”

He studies her again.

She’s trying to look steady, composed—but the cracks are still there. In the tightness around her mouth. In the way her hands curl slightly into her sleeves, like she needs something to hold onto.

“…I think,” he says finally, measured, “that right now, you’re a liability.”

She flinches. Barely noticeable.

“But,” he adds, before he can stop himself, “you weren’t before.”

That gets her attention.

Her eyes lift, searching his face like she’s trying to figure out if this is another jab.

“You kept up,” he continues, tone flat, factual. “You argued. You corrected my mistakes. Annoyingly often.”

A faint, almost ghost of a smirk flickers across her lips. “Glad I left an impression.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

Silence again.

But it’s… different now.

Less sharp.

“So what?” she asks after a moment. “You’re going to report me?”

The question hangs there, heavier than anything else she’s said.

He doesn’t answer immediately.

He could. It would be easy. Clean. Logical.

Instead, his gaze drifts to her bag for a split second.

Then back to her.

“…No,” he says.

Her breath catches. “No?”

“Not yet.”

Suspicion replaces the brief relief on her face. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” he says, voice lowering slightly, “I’m not interested in covering for you if this gets worse.”

“So I’m on probation?” she scoffs weakly.

“You’re on thin ice.”

She leans back in her chair, exhaling slowly, like she’s been holding that breath for hours. “God, you’re insufferable.”

“I’ve been told.”

Another pause.

Then, softer, almost reluctant—“Why not?”

He frowns. “Why not what?”

“Report me.” Her gaze doesn’t leave him this time. “You don’t like me. You think I’m a mess. This would be the perfect excuse.”

He holds her stare.

For a second, the answer sits right there—cold, simple.

Because it’s not his problem.

Because she made her choices.

Because he doesn’t care.

But the words don’t come out like that.

“…Because,” he says instead, slower than usual, “if you’re going to crash, I’d rather see it coming than deal with the aftermath.”