Chapter 20 #2
He nods, sober again. “No books or hips. Understood.”
A knock raps the door frame. Dr. Johnson appears, eyebrows already communicating displeasure. “Is the copier free or are we all neglecting desk duties and hiding from students in here today?”
Leo slides sideways like a magician, revealing the machine. “All yours, Doc. We were just—” He chokes on any answer that could get either of us fired. “Stapling.”
“Mm,” Dr. Johnson says, which is tenured for ‘I do not want to know.’ He shoulders in with a stack of midterms and the room gets smaller—as if that’s possible.
Leo brushes past me—careful, so careful, no touching—to the doorway. He pauses just outside Johnson’s line of vision, tips his head, and winks.
He’s mid-turn, about to exit the room, when the traitorous bitch in my brain, still apparently wearing a headset from the audiobook, decides to fling me under a bus.
“Leo,” I say, voice low enough not to draw Dr. Johnson’s attention.
He turns back, hopeful in a way that slices me and makes me warm all at once. “Yeah?”
“It wasn’t—” My tongue trips. God, Tori. “I didn’t slap you because I hated it.”
Something like hunger flickers in his eyes, then he boxes it up so fast I doubt what I just saw. “Noted,” he says softly. “But also, not the point. I won’t touch you again unless you ask. That’s the new rule.”
New rule. I nod, trying the words on the inside of my mouth. “Okay.”
He gives me one last look—a look that feels so much like longing, but might just be me projecting—and then he’s gone. Dr. Johnson mutters about the copy machine’s built-in stapler being jammed and I take unholy joy in fixing it in two seconds flat while he blinks like I performed witchcraft.
When he leaves, I sag against the counter and pick up my earbuds, twirling them around in my palm before placing them back into my ears.
I click my audiobook back on for noise, then immediately swipe out of that app because absolutely not.
Instead, I swap over to a cheerful podcast about a woman who rescues raccoons.
The host’s voice is bright and happy. She says ‘babies’ way too many times.
I stack the last quiz and straighten the edges again, even though they don’t need straightening. My palm still tingles from the slap; my hip still remembers the heat of his hand. Shame and want take turns elbowing each other in my chest.
I think about the way Leo didn’t make excuses. About how he stood there, hands open, and let me set the terms. About how he said my full name—Victoria—like I am a person he respects, not a hurdle he has to charm his way over.
I put the last stack in Dr. Patel’s box and label it with a sticky note in my neat handwriting. Then I pick up the ziplock once again and press it to my cheek because it gives my body something to do while my brain recalculates.
I don’t know what we are. Friends? More?
I don’t know that I’m allowed to want more.
I only know that today, in a too-warm copy room smelling like hot paper and toner, a man—Leo Euler—touched my hip and my body reached back before my history could stop it—and then that same man apologized with his whole being and listened when I told him how to treat me.
New rule. I can work with rules. I like rules. Especially when people follow them. Even more so when people follow through on what they say they are going to do.
And I truly believe he’s going to follow through on what he said. He won’t touch me again unless I ask him to.
Outside, the pod is quiet. Thanksgiving break begins next week and students have already begun the trek home to visit family and friends, leaving us to our own devices. Fewer meetings, fewer interruptions, more time to complete daily tasks and prep work before finals at the beginning of December.
I savor the quiet days, especially since people in our office typically means someone has a problem that needs to be solved. I have enough problems in my own life at the moment, thank you.
Like the separation agreement and affidavit being served to Chase by my attorney’s office today. I do not foresee him responding to that anywhere near as calmly as Leo responded to my slapping him across the face.
So, yes. Chase is definitely considered a problem in my life.
And Leo… I’m still not entirely sure what he is, but a problem, he is not.
Back at my desk, I line up my pens like little soldiers and open a new email I don’t need to open just to stare at the subject line until my pulse stops trying to stage dive out of my neck.
My fingers type before I overthink them into silence.
Subject: Copy room
Body:
For the record, I don’t hate you.
New rule stands.
– T
I hover over send. This is nothing. This is air. This is also me handing him a match and telling him not to light anything on fire.
I hit send.
The reply lands thirty seconds later like he’s been sitting there waiting with a defibrillator.
Subject: Re: Copy room
Body:
Received.
Rule: No touching unless asked.
Sub-rule (per HR’s favorite problem):
No jazz hands.
Addendum: May request permission to make you laugh in non-hip-related contexts.
Optional Addendum: Can we agree that two negatives make a positive?
– L
A smile sneaks onto my mouth, uninvited, then pretends it’s always lived there. I type back.
Subject: Re: Re: Copy room
Body:
Addendum approved.
Violation results in stapler-related consequences.
And no, don’t test the double-negative theory—you’d end up squared and I’d still be negative.
– T
Before I can close the tab, his typing dot pops up again—like he’s texting inside of email, which is illegal but also, apparently, on brand.
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Copy room
Body:
Noted. I respect the stapler.
Also… you okay? (You don’t have to answer.)
P.S. For the record, you had me at acute angle of that slap.
– L
The corner of my lip betrays me, curving up. Acute angle. God help me.
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Copy room
Body:
Working on it.
And don’t get clever. That slap was 180° of justified.
– T
His last reply comes slower, like he’s thinking too hard about it.
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Copy room
Body:
Fair. But if 180° is a straight line… maybe someday we find the curve again.
– L
I close the laptop before I melt into my chair. He’s impossible. And infuriating. And exactly the kind of math-pun Don Juan who could make me blush just by mentioning geometry.
Once again I am reminded that my vagina is, no doubt, a ridiculously horny mathematician. How did the fuckboy become my personal brand of kryptonite?
I fish my phone out to text Skye and Alis because if anyone can metabolize secondhand embarrassment for sport, it’s Skye, and Alis, because… well because I’m trying really hard not to leave her out of things.
Tori, 1:08 p.m.: Accidentally listened to porn in the copy room and then hip contact happened and I slapped Leo across the face.
Skye, 1:08 p.m.: LMFAOOOOO STOP IT! Also wdym by ‘hip contact’??
Tori, 1:09 p.m.: Hip contact like, he touched my hip and I maybe kinda pressed my ass into his groin before I turned around and slapped him?
Skye, 1:09 p.m.: …
Skye, 1:09 p.m.: You did WHAT?
Skye, 1:09 p.m.: Do I need to bring emergency pastries? Like a croissant that whispers “you are insane and also so fkng hot”
Tori, 1:09 p.m.: It was weird and the book was playing in my ear and … GAH. We established a new rule: No touching unless asked. He apologized. Like FOR REAL apologized.
Skye, 1:10 p.m.: See???? Unhinged yet respectful. Proud of him. Proud of you. Proud of your hip and your ass for trying to get. you. some.
Alis, 1:10 p.m.: I am so confused RN.
Tori, 1:10 p.m.: I’m moving out.
Skye, 1:10 p.m.: Damn babe. That’s super fast for just getting some hip action. Does Leo know ur a stage5 clinger?
Alis, 1:11 p.m.: Still confused.
Skye, 1:11 p.m.: also i’m naming a latte after this. The Copy Room. notes of toner, seduction and regret.
Tori, 1:11 p.m.: absolutely not
Alis, 1:11 p.m.: ARE WE TALKING ABOUT LEO, LEO?! LIKE MY FIANCES BEST FRIEND, LEO?
Skye, 1:11 p.m.: too late it’s printing on the menu LOVE YOU BYEEEEE
Alis, 1:12 p.m.: ONE OF YOU WHORES BETTER ANSWER ME.
I set the phone down, laughing because damn, it feels good to have not just one, but both of my best friends in the know about my life. Alis may feel confused right now, but she’ll catch up.
The pod door is open, and footsteps drift down the hall. Dr. Wallace’s voice filters in, low and precise, as if he’s rehearsing lines before stepping on stage. He appears in the main doorway, holding a stack of papers balanced on the edge of a clipboard.
“Victoria,” he says, tone overly formal.
His gaze does a quick, literal up-and-down like he’s scanning for injury to the upper half of my body that is not hidden behind the desk, then latches on to my face.
“If you’re planning to go to the supply closet later, I could…
accompany you. Carry a box, in case it’s heavy. I don’t want you to… strain anything.”
The words aren’t oily, just factual, as if he’s making a case for himself in bullet points.
Still, they land with a thud, and my shoulders try not to climb into my ears.
If I had to compare Dr. Wallace to a book character, he’d be Mr. Collins from Pride and Prejudice.
Means well, but damn. The man is so awkward it hurts.
“I’m fine, but thank you,” I say, polite and brisk, a smile neat enough to staple.
Behind him, Leo’s office door opens. His timing is suspiciously perfect. He leans casually against the frame, holding up a slim folder like it’s Exhibit A.
“Hey, Wallace,” he calls across the pod, breezy. “Didn’t you want those lecture notes from 2019? Found the whole set.” He wiggles the folder. “In my office.”
Wallace blinks, recalibrating. The offer of notes is apparently more compelling than my supply-closet muscles. “Ah. Yes. Thank you.” He adjusts his glasses and makes a beeline for Leo’s office instead.
The moment the door clicks shut behind them, I rub at my temple. Half gratitude, half exasperation.
Five minutes later, the pod is quiet again, my inbox halfway wrangled, when Leo’s door clicks open once more.
He strolls out, folderless this time, and without breaking stride, deposits a sheet of paper squarely on my desk like he’s delivering campus mail.
No eye contact, no pause—just a half-smile tucked into his cheek before he vanishes back into his office.
I glance down. A half sheet of printer paper, trimmed with scissors. Across the top, in his neat block caps:
INCIDENT REPORT: COPY ROOM
Date: [Today]
Reporting parties: T. Foster (hand of justice), L. Euler (face, left cheek, now better than right)
Cause: Miscommunication + Audiobook Spiciness (Category 5)
Injuries:
– Redness (cheek, L.); treated with ice + humility
– Ego bruise (V., mild); treated with apology, organizational assistance, smoulder
Corrective Action:
– New Rule implemented (No touch unless asked; see Sec. 1(a))
– Jazz hands banned (Sec. 2)
– Consent stapled to office policy (Sec. 3)
Signatures:
L. E. ___________
V. F. ___________
I shouldn’t grin at a fake, hand-written incident report delivered like contraband in a spy movie. But I do. I slide it under my planner like a ridiculous secret I’m choosing to keep.
The afternoon continues on, slowly but peacefully.
I answer emails, fill out a room request for finals week.
I order a box of the good paper clips because no one else will.
At some point, the sun angles low enough to throw a pale bar of light across the carpet from the window across the hall and the building fully settles into that pre-break quiet I adore.
My phone buzzes again. A new text from an unknown number with a link preview. My stomach drops before my brain catches up—Chase? No. It’s Jacob Sterling’s office. The process server has confirmed delivery.
Unknown, 3:47 p.m.: Separation agreement and affidavit: served.
I stare at the confirmation, watching my name and his name sit there beside the word served like it’s just a verb and not the ground shifting under my feet. A small tremor moves through me that isn’t panic, but not quite steadiness. It feels most like the after-sway when you’ve stepped off a boat.
I type back: Received. Thank you. Then turn my phone to ‘do not disturb’, lock it, and set it face down, because I’m not going to let my peace get hijacked by whatever reaction might be brewing in Moraine.
Across the pod, Leo’s laugh carries—soft and short, the kind people let out when they’re trying not to.
I picture his cheek earlier today, still faintly pink, and the way he stood with his hands open, no excuses.
The way he wrote “consent stapled to office policy” like a dork and a gentleman at the same time.
Today was supposed to be unbearable—the day Chase got served, the day my life tilted harder into paperwork and split assets and lawyers and divorce and all the ugly aftermath.
And yet, somehow, between his terrible flirting and stupid math puns, Leo Euler managed to take my mind off the stress without even knowing he was doing it.