Page 26 of Double Standards

“I have some good news,” Cooper announces, grinning like a kid with a secret.

I swallow the glass of wine, ignoring the bitter tang it leaves on my tongue. I have a feeling I’m going to need this for whatever Cooper has to tell me. Placing my empty glass on the table, I drop my coat and bag on the side, then slide into the chair across from him, forcing a smile onto my face. “Go on.”

“I’ve been offered a job,” he explains, pouring more wine into my glass. “It’s not much, but it’s part-time.”

“Where?” I ask, taking a sip and bracing myself.

He hesitates, just long enough to set off the warning bells in my head. “Bronx Journal.”

My eyebrows twitch before I can catch the reaction. “That’s great news!” I beam, bright enough to fool anyone—except maybe myself.

Because the truth is, Cooper’s track record doesn’t exactly scream “professional stability.” Over the past two years, he’s bounced from one sketchy gig to the next—bartending at that underground poker den in Midtown, “managing” a pop-up supplement shop that mysteriously disappeared overnight, freelancing as a so-called marketing consultant for some crypto scam that tanked within a month. Every time he swore it was legit, and every time it ended the same: with him broke, pissed off, and blaming the world for being unfair.

And now the Bronx Journal?

I mean, sure, it’s technically a publication. But it’s the kind of tabloid that runs stories about alien abductions and celebrity love triangles with sources named “anonymous guy at the bar.” They’re not exactly known for integrity—or truth. It’s the kind of place that hires writers to stir shit up, not tell real stories.

Still, I nod and take another sip of wine, pretending to share his excitement. Maybe I’ve just gotten good at pretending. Or maybe I’m too tired to argue. Either way, I push down the doubts clawing at my throat and try to picture Cooper finally sticking with something.

Maybe this time will be different.

Maybe pigs will fly.

I clink my glass with his, pretending I’m not thinking about the last fifteen minutes. About Axel’s hand in mine. About how right it felt.

I look down at the food, grateful for the distraction because I’m still trying to figure out what happened in the car. Not just the fact that the DA’s office is taking advantage of Axel’s situation, but the moment right after I left the car. Axel’s threat sits heavier in my mind, but more than that, the contrast of his touch, the way he looked at me when he uttered those words.

I shake my head, snapping myself out of my thoughts.

Cooper and I eat in relative peace, making small talk about the job, the city, rent. I tell myself to stay present, to appreciate the effort Cooper made tonight. But no matter how hard I try, my thoughts drift.

To the way Axel looked at me.

To the quiet threat in his voice, his hand lingering on mine, like he needed to remind me who I was dealing with—and maybe, who I really am beneath all the layers I pretend still fit.

Cooper’s phone rings, jarring me from my thoughts. He glances at the screen, then shifts in his chair like he can’t get out fast enough.

“I’m gonna head out,” he suddenly announces before locking his phone and sliding it into his pocket like he’s already halfway gone. “You don’t mind if I go meet some friends, right?”

I shake my head, barely lifting my eyes. “Go.”

Deep down, I don’t care if he goes to the moon. I’m too wrapped up in the noise inside my own head to chase after someone who’s already checking out. Let him go. Let him drinkand laugh and pretend like nothing’s fractured. I’m too tired to pretend with him. Too tired to ask him to stay when I’m not even sure I want him to.

The door closes behind him, like a period at the end of a sentence we’ve both stopped reading. I stare at the half-empty wine glass in front of me and realize I feel no profound disappointment.

I don’t move for a long time after the door clicks shut behind Cooper. The apartment feels still again—like it always does after he leaves. It’s not silent, not really. The fridge hums. A siren wails in the distance. The candle flames crackle against the low soundtrack of some playlist Cooper must’ve thrown on without thinking. Still, it feels empty. Not in the way it used to when I loved the quiet, but in the way that reminds me I’m not sure when I stopped feeling at home in my own life.

I push my half-eaten plate away and curl my fingers around the stem of the wine glass, lifting it to my lips again. It’s cheap, acidic, the kind of wine that leaves your teeth gritty if you drink too much. But I finish it anyway.

The buzz hits fast. Or maybe it’s not the wine at all. Maybe it’s the adrenaline hangover, the comedown from standing too close to Axel and knowing damn well I liked it. Maybe it’s the way my skin still remembers his fingertips ghosting over my palm, the heat that curled in my gut when his voice dipped low and dangerous and almost—almost—caring.

God, I hate that.

I hate that he feels more real in a ten-minute car ride than Cooper has in months. That the chaos in Axel calls to something just as broken in me.

I get up and walk to the sink, pouring the rest of the wine down the drain. Then I rinse the glass. My hands move like they’re on autopilot, muscle memory carrying me through the motions of domestic normalcy while my brain unravels.

Axel is a threat.I know that.