Page 66 of Gamebreaker

"Okay then. Goodbye, Captain Miserable."

"Still going with that nickname?"

"Until you give me a better reason to stop."

I walked into my building before she could respond, before I could see whatever expression was on her face, before I could analyze why my chest felt lighter than it had in two days.

The elevator ride back up to my floor felt different from the ride down. Less like descending into punishment, more like returning from an important place.

Mia was waiting at my cubicle when I got back, vibrating with barely contained curiosity.

"Well?" she demanded.

"We talked. She apologized. Like, really apologized. She was crying, Mia. Full breakdown. She hasn't slept or eaten in two days. She said she's attracted to me. We're... not friends, but maybe not enemies anymore?"

"Wait, she said what?"

"That she's attracted to me. Just came right out and said it while sobbing." I collapsed into my chair, pulled up Mrs. Rahman's claim again. "Which is apparently why she's been such an asshole. Because she's scared and closeted, and I make her feel things she doesn't know how to handle."

"Harper." Mia's tone was tender. "How do you feel about that?"

"Terrified. Confused. Still hurt. But also..." I stopped, trying to find words for the chaos in my chest. "Also kind of moved? She was really vulnerable. Like, genuinely falling apart. And you know how hard that is for her."

"So, what are you going to do?"

"Process insurance claims and not think about it. That's my plan. Very solid plan. No flaws whatsoever."

"You like her too."

My cheeks flamed. “I absolutely do not."

"Harper. You're blushing."

"I'm flushed from walking six blocks and having an emotionally intense conversation. This is a cardiovascular response, not an emotional one."

"Sure it is."

"Mia. I swear to God, if you start matchmaking like you’re Laine—"

"I'm not matchmaking. I'm observing. There's a difference between those two, you know."

"The difference is I will murder you if you try to set me up with someone who weaponized my trauma less than forty-eight hours ago. Even if she did cry about it for two days straight."

"Fair point." Mia returned to her cubicle, but I could hear the smile in her voice. "But for the record? The way you're describing her? That's not hate."

"It's not like either."

"Then what is it?"

I stared at my computer screen, at Mrs. Rahman's claim about a Whole Foods parking lot, at the mundane details of my normal life that felt somehow different now.

"It's complicated," I said finally.

And it was. Complicated and messy, and probably a terrible idea. But sitting there in my cubicle, my waist still warm from where Cam had pulled me close, the coffee cup empty on my desk, the image of her tear-stained face burned into my memory—I couldn't quite convince myself to regret it.

I pulled out my phone, opened Instagram, posted a story: the empty coffee cup from the good place, the foam art long gone.

Caption: "Processing (but less angry this time)."