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“I will.”

“Not the file,” he said.

I stopped.

He held my eyes.

“I’m not asking you to erase what you saw.”

That undid something in me so fast I had to lock my knees.

“I’m asking you not to let them have it.”

His voice had dropped on the last word.

I swallowed.

“They won’t.”

He watched me for one more second.

Then: “Next time, Sam…”

He stopped there, mouth tightening once, like the shape of the sentence had come to him and he disliked all available versions of it.

I waited.

“If there is a next time,” he said finally, “don’t hold me halfway.”

The line went straight under my ribs.

I nodded once because anything more would have broken my voice.

He stepped back then. Not far. Just enough to re-create air between us. Room to stand in what had happened without pretending it had not.

“Go fix it,” he said.

I picked up my laptop.

Got to the door.

Stopped with my hand on the knob, because leaving on that sentence felt possible and leaving without saying anything else felt unforgivable.

“I’m sorry,” I said, still facing the door. “Not in the broad abstract way people say it when they want out of consequences. I mean it specifically. I knew better, and I still kept it.”

Silence behind me.

Then, quietly:

“I know.”

Not forgiveness.

But not nothing.

I opened the door and stepped back into the hallway, the cold building air hitting my face like a correction.

Contained. Private. No headlines. No scandal.