Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
TORI
Like any normal human being with an eight-to-five, I am not a fan of Mondays. But today… this one feels different.
The ink is dry. Papers are filed. There’s no more almost, no more waiting.
Yes, the judge still has to give his official stamp of approval, but Jake has already assured me there won’t be any hiccups.
For all intents and purposes, I am walking into work this morning without the invisible weight of someone else’s name pressed against mine.
Although I’ve been going by Victoria Foster for the last seven months, I’ve still carried another name for so long that it feels foreign to imagine myself without it.
Still, officially severing that tie is freeing. Terrifying and liberating at the same time. (Nobody ruin this moment for me by saying it isn’t officially official until I change my name at the Social Security Administration office. I’m not an idiot.)
The weekend blurred past me. A lot of texting with Leo, some of it serious, some absolutely ridiculous and fun.
He told me all about Lois, how she caught him naked and trying to break into his own house, and I laughed until I cried. I think she might be my new favorite person, and that’s saying something since I haven’t even met her yet.
Somewhere in between the laughter and the late-night honesty, I fully embraced how much lighter I feel with him. How much easier everything seems when he’s the one on the other side of the conversation.
However, texting is one thing. Standing in front of him again is another.
The hum of the copy machine greets me as I step inside the small room mid-morning, balancing a ream of paper against my hip. The smell of toner clings to the air.
I slip into the rhythm of loading trays and pressing buttons, my body working on autopilot while my brain tries to convince me that this is just a normal day. Just a normal Monday.
The door opens behind me.
I don’t have to turn to know who it is. The air changes—charged, aware, like my skin is suddenly more awake than the rest of me.
When I glance over my shoulder, there he is, leaning against the filing cabinet like he owns the place, his crooked grin doing terrible things to my heartbeat.
And in his hand, folded carefully, is a flower.
At first I think it’s just scrap paper. Then he steps closer, and I see it properly.
A flower folded from the page of a math book. The petals uneven, a little messy at the edges, but still beautiful. Entirely him.
He holds it out. “For you.”
“You made this?” The words come out breathy, my voice softer than I mean for it to be.
He shrugs, but there’s a glimmer of pride in his eyes. “Yeah. I thought it was better than showing up with grocery store roses. And…”
His voice dips lower, gentler.
“You look really pretty today.”
The words hit me harder than they should. Not because they’re cute or clever, but because they’re simple. Honest. No pun to hide behind, nothing fancy to soften the edges. Just the truth.
“Thank you,” I whisper, pressing the flower lightly against my chest.
He clears his throat. “I wanted to say I’m sorry again. For being an idiot. For assuming the worst. For being loud when I should have been listening. For every stupid thing I said. And, again, for making you spit in my face. Which, also again, I deserved.”
A laugh breaks free before I can stop it.
“You really did.”
His grin widens, boyish and sheepish all at once. Then he pulls something else from his pocket.
A folded piece of paper, neat and precise, like he took his time with it. He presses it into my hand.
On it, written in his careful handwriting, are two words: Formal Request.
I arch a brow. “For what? A restraining order?”
His mouth twitches. “To step down from my current post as your GBF.”
My mouth drops open in mock horror. “But Leo, why? Why ever would you leave me?”
“I’m afraid it must be done,” he explains solemnly. “It is for the greater good.”
Then his voice gentles, hopeful, eyes locked on mine.
“However, the position has not dissolved. It is simply… evolving.”
“Evolving?” I inquire, eyebrow raised.
“Yes,” he confirms, completely serious. “Rather than the one post of GBF, I’ve been told of promotions—elevating both your status and mine. The G simply transfers to you, making me your BF, and then you become my GF.”
It’s so ridiculous, so corny, and so utterly him that I snort. “Leo Euler—”
“Actually,” he interrupts, puffing up like a peacocked dork, “it’s Leopold Christopher Euler the Third.”
That makes my eyes sparkle despite myself. “Okay, Leopold Christopher Euler the Third, did you just ask me to be your girlfriend like we’re in middle school?”
“Yes,” he says simply, no hesitation. “Yes, I did.”
I press the paper flower harder against my chest, smiling despite the lump forming in my throat.
“Yes. I would love to be your girlfriend.”
The relief that floods his face is so raw and genuine it almost undoes me.
He steps closer, closing the space between us. His hand comes up, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear, then lingers. His palm curves against my jaw, fingers sliding behind my neck, warm and steady.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks, voice low.
I nod, my heart tripping over itself.
“Yes. But only a small one. No making out at work.”
His grin tilts. “I’ll behave.”
He leans down, brushing his lips softly against mine. Once. Twice. Sweet, steady, and dizzying all at once.
When he goes in for a third, I slip a finger between us, stopping him with a laugh.
“Don’t you have class, Professor Euler?”
His eyes crinkle. “Shit, you’re right.”
He presses one quick kiss to the tip of my nose before pulling back, reluctant but grinning, and then he’s striding out the door like he just won something.
I stand there for a long moment, the paper flower still clutched to my chest, lips tingling, my whole body humming with the aftershock of something that feels both brand new and long overdue.
When I finally make it back to my desk, there’s a folded note waiting for me. My name written neatly on the outside in his handwriting.
I already know what it is before I even open it—he’s too smug not to have planned something like this.
Inside, the words make me laugh out loud.
Dear Girlfriend,
Please come to my house for dinner tonight. Seven o’clock. Wear something comfortable. But feel free to wear something lacy and uncomfortable underneath if you so choose. I will not object.
Lovingly,
Boyfriend
I shake my head, grinning like an idiot at the sheer nerve of him. He left that copy room and went straight to class, meaning he wrote this note and left it on my desk before ever stepping foot into that copy room.
He was so sure of himself, writing this before even asking me. So perfectly, ridiculously Leo.
I pull out my phone and respond to his note.
Tori, 10:52 a.m.: Dear BF, I would love to come for dinner tonight. Will Lois be joining us? Warmly, GF
His reply comes almost instantly.
Leo, 10:52 a.m.: No.
I laugh and type back.
Tori, 10:52 a.m.: But why not? She’s my favorite!
Leo, 10:53 a.m.: She’s seen me naked once. She will not see me naked twice.
My core clenches at the thought of the two of us, together, finally.
Before I get too lost in my thoughts, I take his note and refold it, tucking it into my planner alongside the handwritten incident report from a few months back. Proof of how far we’ve come—then and now.
Mondays are supposed to drag, supposed to weigh heavy with dread and preemptive exhaustion for the week ahead.
But this one? This one feels like the start of everything wonderful.
Leo
The knock comes right at seven.
I’m already standing in the entryway when it lands—because of course I am. I’ve checked the mirror three times, re-set the plates twice, and reheated the food once even though it didn’t need it.
For a man who usually wings it, I’ve suddenly become incredibly meticulous. Every detail feels like it matters tonight, like I need to get this right.
I open the door and forget how to breathe.
She’s there. Cheeks pink from the cold, hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders, peacoat hanging open like she’s already halfway in.
Tori is wearing a wrap shirt tied at her waist, dark jeans that look like they were sewn specifically to test my self-control, and boots with a modest heel that somehow make her legs look a mile long.
But it’s her smile that destroys me. That familiar, radiant smile—the one that never fails to level me.
“Hi,” she says, voice warm, easy, as if we didn’t spend all weekend in that uncertain in-between space, texting through the wreckage of Saturday.
“Hi,” I say back, and my voice cracks like a thirteen-year-old boy whose hormones haven’t figured themselves out yet.
I open the door wider, letting her step inside, and that’s when I notice the bag in her hand.
Small. Zipped. Unmistakably overnight size.
My grin comes without permission. I lean back against the door as I close it, arms folded for exactly one second before I can’t resist.
“I see you brought an overnight bag. How very presumptuous.”
Her eyes flash, just enough heat to make my chest thrum, and she swats me in the chest.
“Shut up.”
I don’t. Not really. I pluck the bag from her hand like it weighs nothing, set it aside, and slide my other arm around her waist. I pull her against me, and when her body lines up with mine it’s like puzzle pieces finding their way home.
I kiss her—my girlfriend. My lips against hers, quick, deliberate, claiming. Not too long, not too deep, just enough to taste her. Enough to remind myself she’s real, and she’s here, and she. chose. me.
When I pull back, she sighs—a soft, involuntary sound that shoots straight through me. Makes me want to abandon every plan I had, skip dinner, skip everything, and get lost in her until neither of us remembers our own names.
But I cooked, and I set the whole damn scene, and I can’t throw it away after all that effort.
“Come on,” I murmur, lacing my fingers through hers and tugging her gently toward the kitchen.