I walk her toward the exit.
And just before I think I’m home free, her demeanor changes.
“Oh.” She stops short. “I, uh… brought you something.”
She rummages in her bag, pulls out a neatly stapled packet, and hands it to me.
The title page hits me like a punch to the chest:
“COLT EVANS: DREAM COACHING JOBS”
Potential paths, timelines, certifications & next-step strategies.
I blink.
She’s watching me react, suddenly shy.
“I… did some research,” she says quietly. “After you told me you wanted to coach. There are programs in the city. Sorry about that silly plumber joke. It was stupid. These are certifications you could get. I made notes on deadlines and requirements.”
I look up at her, speechless.
“Just…in case you wanted a place to start,” she adds, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “I know how hard it is to restart momentum. But you shouldn’t give up on your dreams.”
My throat goes tight.
My mom hasn’t even done something like this.
My last girlfriend? Hell no.
And Elena, a woman who wants “casual,” who keeps teasing me, who nearly ended me in burgundy gym clothes…
She took hours of her life to do this.
“You took the time to do this…for me?” I ask, redundantly.
She shrugs lightly. “I like helping people reach their potential. Comes with being a corporate overlord.”
I laugh under my breath. “Elena, this is, I mean…”
I don’t get to finish.
“Evans!”
Damien’s voice slices through the air.
Elena flinches, and I straighten.
“See you later,” she whispers, slipping out the door.
I watch her go until she disappears into the evening rush on West 27th.
Then I brace myself and head toward the lion’s den.
Damien’s waiting in the office, door half-open like a trap.
I step in.
He closes it all the way.
