The Trial Run

I woke up on the couch, still in yesterday's clothes, one sock halfway off and the throw blanket balled up near the floor. My back cracked when I sat up. My mouth was dry. My leg throbbed just enough to remind me of what I already knew: I'd pushed too hard yesterday.

The apartment, in all its clean-lined, open-concept glory, looked like a luxury showroom in the early light. Which, in a way, it was. I built it to impress . . . myself, mostly. But this morning, it didn't feel impressive. It felt hollow. Like I'd sealed myself in a glass box and called it winning.

I dragged myself into the shower. The water scalded more than it revived, but at least it forced me into consciousness. No time to shave . . . I didn't trust my hand to stay steady enough to avoid bloodshed. I slapped on some moisturizer like it could cover the fatigue in my face and reached for my glasses.

Contacts weren't happening. My eyes felt like sandpaper, and I didn't have ten minutes to waste stabbing myself in the face for vanity's sake.

One glance in the mirror told me everything: stubble heavy, hair still damp, exhaustion practically stitched into my expression. Not a disaster, but not exactly billboard-worthy. Somewhere between "off-duty partner" and "dad who forgot he's on snack duty for soccer practice."

I skipped the suit. Lululemon commission slacks, charcoal. Fitted polo, navy, sleeves just snug enough to fake confidence. Clean, deliberate. Professional enough no one would ask questions. Casual enough to say, I've been working hard. Don't expect small talk.

By the time I pulled into the parking garage and made it to the front doors, it was 9:02. Cold morning. Sidewalk a little icy. I walked with the kind of caution you don't want people to notice. But I was slow, and I knew it.

When I finally reached for the door, it opened before I could touch it.

Margot.

She stepped back to hold it open, brows flicking up just slightly. Like she hadn't expected to see me there. Like she assumed I arrived two hours ago.

Her eyes scanned my body—quick, clinical. Face. Glasses. Shirt. Arms. Back to my face. Something passed across her features, subtle but not unreadable. Recognition. Curiosity.

"Morning," she said, arching one brow. "Casual Thursday?"

I gave her a crooked half-smile. "I'm a trendsetter."

She looked good. No—she always looked good. But today, she looked settled. Calm. Grounded in a way I wasn't. Trousers, sneakers, soft sweater layered over a blouse. Her hair pulled back loosely, face fresh and unbothered. No flash, no pretense. Just presence. She didn't perform being competent. She just was.

That was dangerous, too.

We walked in side by side.

"You okay?" she asked, glancing at me. "You look a little..."

"Exhausted? Disheveled? Handsome in a vaguely academic way?"

She smirked. "I was going to say 'in need of caffeine,' but sure. All of the above."

"I stayed up too late doing trial prep," I said. Another easy lie. "Labeling exhibits. Yelling at PDFs."

"Living the dream," she said, almost laughing.

I pressed the elevator button. We stepped inside.

"You're wearing glasses," she noted as the doors closed. "Didn't know you wore glasses."

"Only when I want people to take me seriously."

She huffed a soft laugh. "They're very . . . professor of litigation."

"Thank you. I'll add it to my LinkedIn."

We stood there in a comfortable hush. I caught her reflection in the elevator wall. Same quiet focus as always. Like she was constantly tracking everything, weighing it silently. I wondered, briefly, if she knew how much power she held in her stillness.

The elevator dinged. We stepped out.

"Coffee later?" I asked, like it was nothing.

She glanced at me. "No meetings today?"

I shrugged. "None that can't be ignored."

A pause. Then, "Yeah, for sure." Her smile wasn't big, but it was real. "Swing by when you're ready."

She turned and walked toward her office, lunchbox and laptop in hand.

And for a second—just a second—I forgot my leg hurt.

I watched her go. Let myself linger there a beat longer than I meant to.

Then I straightened my shirt, reset my jaw, and walked the opposite direction.

Back to work. Back to pretending it's all easy.