Page 62 of On a Deadline

I like both.

For the first time in two days, the newsroom felt quiet. She thought about how people still saw the presser as her win, but this, this small, secret corner of honesty between them, felt like something else entirely.

She didn’t reply. She just sat there, watching Erin’s name fade from the screen, feeling the hum of the computers and the low chatter of the night crew fill the air.

It wasn’t a story. It wasn’t a win. It was something real. And for now, that was enough.

Thirty Two

Monday nights had a shape to them. The station quieted by seven, the last of the lights cut a pale line across her office, and the building sighed into its evening bones. Erin drove home with the radio low. Leo trotted to the door before she had the chance to jiggle the key, tail thumping the jamb like a metronome. She dropped her bag by the shoe rack and braced her palm on the door frame for a second longer than necessary, like she had to ask her body to catch up with the rest of her.

“Hi, menace,” she said, rubbing between his ears. “You hungry, or are you going to pretend I never feed you?”

He huffed like he understood and then beelined for his bowl. Erin poured kibble, set out fresh water, and let herself look around the quiet room. Monday had its rules. Dishes washed before bed. Email closed after dinner. Cannoli waiting in a white box with a gold ribbon she kept on the second shelf of the fridge. If nothing else, Monday would end sweet.

She opened the fridge to pull out garlic and a lemon and caught herself watching the spot where the white box with the gold ribbon usually sat. She hadn’t stopped for dessert. The day had gotten away from her. So had the familiar weight of the week’s first round of calls. A detective had looped her in on something that made her neck tense, just a few lines in a draft brief and a name she recognized for all the wrong reasons. Not public yet. Probably not tomorrow either. But soon.

She set a pan on the stove, oil in a slick, heat low. Leo nosed the kitchen rug into a fold and circled twice before collapsing like he’d done something heroic.

“You don’t pay rent,” she told him. “You can at least pretend to help.”

Her phone lit on the counter. For a second she nearly let it go. Then she saw the name.

You busy tonight?

Erin swallowed. Her thumb hovered, then moved.

Cooking. Does that count?

Depends on what you’re making.

Something with actual vegetables so my mother’s ghost won’t scold me in my sleep.

Your mother is very much alive.

She would haunt me anyway.

Jamie sent a laughing emoji. Then:

Do you want company?

Erin stared at the text and felt a small panic flare, the good kind, the kind that meant there was a choice to make and she could make it. She glanced at the pan, the lemon, the garlic waiting to be smashed. She pictured the white box with the gold ribbon that wasn’t on the second shelf.

Yeah. Come over.

On my way. Do you need anything?

Erin typednoand backspaced.

Wine if you feel like it. Or just you.

There was a beat. Then:

Got it.

She cracked a clove against the cutting board and let the scent open her nose. Olive oil took the heat, garlic went in, the soft hiss a comfort she felt in her chest. She shaved ribbons of zucchini and sliced tomatoes. Pasta water. Salt generous. Her mouth moved through a grocery list out loud, like the sound of routine could pin the evening to something steady.

“You will not beg at the table,” she told Leo. “We have guests now. We’re civilized.”