Chase
Monday morning welcomed Chase with the blue glow of his phone.
He rolled over, squinting as the weekend caught up to him.
Three messages from Vincenzo, each more manic than the last: “after-party was nuclear,” “bigger announcements incoming,” and a blunt “lunch. Don’t flake.”
Then there was the message from Amelia.
Made it home. Thanks for the walk. Don’t accept any “gifts.” ☺ P.S. Two years is a lot of time to catch up on.
Chase winced, staring at the cursor. He typed a long excuse about being a coward, backspaced it, then tried something honest about missing her. Deleted that too. In the end he settled for something safer.
Coffee IOU this week? I promise to leave the ‘SilverTongue’ closing arguments at the office.
The three dots appeared almost instantly. His stomach did a small flip.
Wednesday, she replied. I’d like to know what’s wrong with that friend of yours. Then, a second later: I want the Orangeside-Chase version. I don’t want to be “SilverTongued.”
He smiled, the old rhythm pulling at something tight in his chest. He scrubbed a hand over his stubble and forced himself out of bed.
On his way out, he paused at the hall closet. A faint scent of cleaner and old paper drifted from his battered duffel bag—the one he’d carried every day during his stint at the Harrison Home. It was packed with retired forms, a frayed lanyard, and that ridiculous ballpoint pen with “infinite ink” the girl had pressed into his hand — the one who could make a dead tablet wake up like it had never been broken.
He shut the door gently.
Nostalgia was a luxury he couldn’t afford on a Monday.
At Michael & Cole the air felt heavier than usual. A stack of contracts waited on his desk. Mid-morning his boss dropped a new folder in front of him with a flick of her wrist.
Chase opened the folder and frowned. The language was too clean, the indemnity clauses too generous. It didn’t ask for partnership. It assumed obedience.
He checked his phone again: nothing from Amelia, but two more from Vincenzo. One was a location pin, the other a selfie in a ring light with the caption: American Psycho but make it philanthropic.
Chase closed the folder, checked his watch, and tried to ignore the feeling that the weekend had followed him into the office.
Amelia
Mondays at the clinic were a slow-motion pileup of chaos. A German Shepherd with a raw hotspot, a tabby cat determined to defy gravity, and the usual parade of worried owners. Amelia moved through it with the steady hands and soft voice she’d perfected years ago.
In the brief lulls between barking and tears, her mind kept slipping back to Saturday night — the hum of the lamppost, the damp air, and the way Chase had looked at her under that stuttering light.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. Noah.
Disappeared after the reunion. Making sure you’re not kidnapped. Did “Silver” and “Gold” bug you too much?
She smirked, typing back: Almost. Great seeing Chase again. He’s what I remember. Vincenzo is… like camping.
She slid the phone away just as Mrs. Halvorsen shuffled in with Snickers, an ancient corgi held together by spite and expensive vet bills. The dog took one look at Amelia and let out a long, dramatic sigh.
“We both need more sleep,” Amelia whispered, scratching behind his ears. Snickers answered with a room-clearing fart that made her laugh despite herself.
On her morning break she escaped to the back steps with a lukewarm coffee. The alley smelled of damp concrete and distant rain. She’d barely taken two sips when her phone buzzed again — Chase this time.
Coffee IOU this week? I promise to leave the SilverTongue closing arguments at the office.
Apprehensive excitement took over as she quickly replied.
Wednesday. I’d like to know what’s wrong with that friend of yours. I want the Orangeside-Chase version. I don’t want to be “SilverTongued.
“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, rereading it.
It felt dangerously easy to slip back into that old rhythm with him. Natural. Warm. Exactly the kind of flow she knew better than to trust right away.
She opened her notes app and typed the two lines that had been circling since she’d left him on the porch:
Men like that don’t give / they trade.
What do I do with a good man who thinks he owes me?
Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. She deleted the second line, then typed it again. Locked the phone before she could overthink it any further.
Space was smart. Sparks needed room to choose their targets.
Vincenzo
The office was half laboratory, half theater. Glass-walled war room on one side, velvet-draped stage with ring lights on the other. Vincenzo stood in the center of the lights, rolling his jaw loose.
He flicked the lighter — click, flame, snap — and slipped it back into his pocket, studying his reflection in the dark monitor.
“Chat,” he rehearsed, voice low and intimate, the way the algorithm loved. “Question for the room: how far should a man go for the boy who kept him grounded? What’s the real price of pulling a friend into the life he deserves?”
He smiled. His teeth were perfect.
Tori from Ops hovered in the doorway. “Your nooner is here,” she said, checking her tablet.
“Send him in,” Vincenzo answered, watching the office door in the reflection of his monitor.