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I open the door in pajamas that have definitely seen better years, holding a mug that says "Men Are Fine I Guess." Jessie’s standing there with Thai food in one hand and a six-pack of kombucha like it’s a peace treaty.

“Emotional support noodles?” Jessie asks, smiling.

“You think carbs can undo digital betrayal?”

Jessie pauses. “I mean... yes?”

I let her in. We sit on the floor. I haven’t vacuumed. There’s a sock on the table and I genuinely don’t know how it got there. Jessie doesn’t comment. Just starts unpacking the food like we’re study partners cramming for the Emotional Recovery Midterm.

We eat in silence for a few minutes. Or rather, I eat. Jessie picks at her tofu pad thai like it personally offended her.

"I had no idea what those files were when I forwarded them," she says.

I nod. I’ve heard this before. But this time it doesn’t make me want to throw a spring roll at her head.

"I know," I say.

She looks at me.

"I’ve been rewriting the betrayal monologue in my head," I add. "Yours was the shortest chapter."

Jessie lets out a laugh. Small. Real.

"You forgave me?"

"I didn’t say that. I just said I stopped planning a legal-themed podcast episode with your name in it."

Beat .

"I forgave you," I admit. "You didn’t run. You didn’t try to spin it. You just showed up. With carbs. That counts for something."

Jessie nods. Then says carefully, "Adrian tried to stop it too."

I freeze. Fork halfway to my mouth.

"It was Tyler. Adrian saw it and—he lost it. Fired him on the spot."

I blink.

"Publicly?"

"Yeah. No PR spin. No ‘mutual agreement.’ Just ‘pack up your shit.’"

I put the fork down.

"Well," I say. "Gold star for doing the bare minimum."

It sounds hollow even to me.

Jessie doesn’t flinch. She just adds, "He looked wrecked, Emily. Like he hadn’t slept since it happened. I didn’t say anything. Just... thought you should know."

I make a noise that sounds vaguely like a scoff. "Next he’ll discover empathy. Imagine the press release."

She doesn’t reply. We let it sit.

I grab the kombucha, twist the cap too hard. "So," I say, gesturing at the bottle. "What flavor is this? Citrus guilt? Mango manipulation?"

"Lavender grief," Jessie says, deadpan.

We both snort. It’s almost a laugh.

Jessie scrolls through the comments on my podcast.

"Listen to this one," she says. "‘I didn’t know other women felt this way. Thank you for making the mess out loud.’"

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. Barely. But it counts .

Jessie refreshes the podcast page. A new comment appears. Jessie tilts the laptop toward me.

@TheRealAdrianZayne: “Emily, you’re the man.”

She squints. “Is that... a peace offering?”

I shrug.

She grins. “That’s Adrian’s highest praise. I don’t think he’s even said that to himself.”

Jessie hands me the last tofu roll. I take it.

We don’t say anything else.

We just eat and let it land. And for the first time in a long time, the apartment feels almost like mine again.