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Matt catches me just as I’m entering the studio.

He barrels toward me like he’s on a mission. I brace for something chaotic— a question like “Do you think jealousy is hot if it’s symmetrical?”

Instead, he just says, “I’m not doing the show.”

I blink. “You mean the pitch I haven’t even sent to Jessie yet?”

He scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah. That one.”

I wait. Matt doesn’t usually cancel things.

“I don’t want it to feel like I’m trying to win her back on camera,” he says. “Like she’s some kind of campaign I’m running.”

I nod slowly. “That was kind of the idea, though.”

“Yeah,” he says. “But... if I do it that way, I’m still performing. I’m still trying to be what she wants, instead of just—being who I am.”

Now I really stare at him.

He shifts on his feet. “I dunno. I was gonna text you about it. But then I thought if I said it out loud, maybe I wouldn’t change my mind tomorrow.”

A laugh almost escapes me. It’s not mocking—more like surprise. Genuine, startled pride.

“Well,” I say. “If it helps, this is one of the most adult things I’ve ever heard you say.”

He winces. “Don’t make it weird.”

“No, seriously. This is like... growth. Do you feel it? Right in the chest? Sort of like a cramp, but with dignity? ”

Matt glares at me. “It’s still weird.”

I clap him on the shoulder. “Weird is the right direction.”

We stand there for a second. Matt looks out at the parking lot like he’s considering running for it.

“She’s not talking to me yet,” he says quietly. “But I think she’s reading my texts again. Like, they’re getting delivered.”

“Progress.”

“I’m not expecting anything,” he adds quickly. “I just want to be someone she doesn’t have to flinch around anymore. That’s the win.”

I nod. “You sure you don’t want to say all this into a ring light for content?”

He flips me off.

I grin. “I’m proud of you.”

“Ugh. I hate that compliment.”

“Good. Means you earned it.”

Matt exhales. “Anyway. Just wanted to say it straight. I know I kinda got everyone hyped for the idea.”

I shake my head. “It’s fine. To be honest, that was one of my dumber ideas. And I have plenty to choose from.”

He gives me a quick, awkward nod. “Later.”

I watch him go. His posture is still a little too performative, like he’s walking to background music only he can hear—but the volume’s lower now. And for once, I don’t feel the need to fix him.

***

When I get to the office, the first thing I notice is the silence.

Not the good kind. Not focused, productive silence .

The kind that usually comes right before a PR crisis or a Slack meltdown involving the phrase "accidental nudity."

I slide into my office, power up the screen, and see it.

The folder.

Raw_logs

Still in the shared drive. Still wide open like a goddamn bear trap.

I curse under my breath and click. The files are all there. Same time stamps. Same titles. A solid hour of audio Emily definitely doesn’t want me—or anyone else—hearing.

And then I hear the footsteps.

Of course it’s Tyler.

He leans against the doorframe like a smug little algorithm with too much access and not enough shame.

“You know,” he says, “I was gonna ping you, but I figured you’d see it eventually.”

I don’t look up. “What exactly did you see, Tyler?”

“Let’s just say your girl has a vivid imagination. And impressive breath control.”

I exhale slowly. Count to three.

Then look up.

“Delete them.”

He blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Delete the folder. Lock it. Kill it. Burn the server.”

Tyler gives me a look that belongs in a courtroom drama. The kind where someone’s about to say “But Your Honor, the footage speaks for itself.”

“You’re serious?”

“Dead. ”

“Come on,” he says, stepping in. “Do you know the kind of reach this could get? Viral potential? I could clip a single sentence and we’d be trending on TikTok in under four hours.”

“She’s not a campaign.”

“She’s an influencer,” he shoots back. “That is, an attention whore.”

I stand.

He doesn’t flinch.

But he doesn’t smirk either.

“Let me guess,” I say. “Still tracking your bet?”

That gets a twitch.

Just a little one, but it’s there.

“Of course I tracked it. I won.”

“You think this is about winning?”

“It’s always about winning. That was your rule, remember?”

My jaw locks. I don’t answer.

He studies me. Slowly. Too slowly.

“Wait,” he says. “You actually fucked her.”

No question mark.

“So it’s true,” Tyler says.

“And you’re already plotting how to use it!” I feel it heat behind my eyes. I breathe. Swallow it. “Of course you are.”

“You trained me to.”

That hangs there. Heavy. Ugly.

And true.

I sit back down, jaw tight.

“Then unlearn it.”

Tyler scoffs, turns toward the door, and mutters just loud enough for me to hear: “You’re making a mistake.”

Then he’s gone .

And I’m alone again.

With the folder.

With the memory.

With the fact that I have, in fact, forgotten the rules.