Looks like you passed.

Her hand eases off your shoulder, but she doesn’t step back.

“Had to make sure you hadn’t turned,” Simone says at last, tone casual enough that it almost hides the confession. Almost.

You arch a brow. “That’s what this is? A loyalty check?”

“Call it a precaution,” she replies. “We don’t like surprises.”

No need to ask who we is.

“How’d you know where to find me?”

She tilts her head, watching your face like she’s waiting for a tell. “Funny. That's what I was about to ask you.”

There it is.

“I didn’t.”

Her expression doesn’t shift. “Coincidence.”

“Yeah.” You hold her stare. “Pure coincidence. Signed up yesterday. Part of a case I’m working for my boss. That’s it.”

She studies you in silence — long enough for you to feel the math working behind her eyes. Evaluating. Deciding.

Then she leans back, loosening her posture just a hair. “You expect me to believe that?”

“I don’t care what you believe,” you say flatly. “But it’s the truth.”

“And you just happened to book a massage with me the very next day.”

“You gave me the massage. What do you think?”

She hums, amused despite herself. “You needed someone to work that shoulder. Not even sure how you managed that. What did you do, arm wrestle an orangutan?”

You don’t give her the satisfaction of reacting, but her lips twitch — almost a smile. “Cortez is going to love this.”

You don’t rise to the bait.

Simone finally moves to the corner of the room, retrieving her bag, giving you enough space to breathe without feeling like prey. “You’re lucky,” she says, almost idly. “You showing up here the same day you reach out? That could’ve gone very differently.”

“You’re telling me,” you mutter, reaching for your clothes.

Her smirk lingers, but her tone sharpens. “Relax. Your story checks out. You’re working a mark for a client — and I know the mark. Baldy, Rachel. You’re either incredibly committed to the lie, or incredibly unlucky. It fits.”

You pause halfway through buttoning your shirt. “You’ve been watching him too.”

“Please. He’s impossible to miss.” Simone rolls her eyes, though the humor doesn’t touch her voice. “Management flagged him a week ago, we even had a team meet about him. Never touches a weight, never takes a class that isn’t hers. Just watches her.”

“Not exactly subtle,” you say.

“No.” Her gaze sharpens. “He's not even trying.”

You don’t answer. You’re thinking the same thing.

Simone slings her bag over her shoulder, stopping at the door. “Cortez also knows someone else has been sniffing around about your girl.”

You stiffen. “Mariana’s daughter.”

She nods. “You’re not the only one asking. That… helped your case.”

So Yvette’s people. You exhale slow. “And Cortez?”

She studies you one last time, eyes cool, calculating. “He’ll send you a text tonight. You’re good. For now.”

“For now,” you echo.

“Don’t make me regret vouching for you,” she says lightly, though her gaze is all steel.

Then she’s gone, leaving the faint scent of eucalyptus and danger in the air.

A massage is supposed to be relaxing.

To be fair, it was — right up until your massage therapist turned out to be an interrogator with a bag of explosives under the table.

You’d noticed the weight of the bag as she left the room. Heavy. Dense. Not the kind of bag you bring for a day of stretching housewives. You’re mad at yourself for not clocking it when she came in.

Careless.

And the direction you’re headed? That’s a habit you can’t afford.

The drive home is quiet, just the hum of the Bolt and the occasional Austin siren in the distance. You replay the conversation in your head, every word Simone said, every micro‑expression you caught in the mirror. You file it away, just like the old days.

When you finally drop onto the couch, your PocketWatch buzzes on the armrest.

Yvette: Come in early tomorrow. Another package needs moving.

You sigh. Figures.

It buzzes again.

Jeremy: Weekend plans?

You smirk, thumbs tapping. Work thing. Won’t be free.

Jeremy: Cool. I might be busy anyway. Started talking to this girl.

You raise a brow. Already?

Jeremy: Some of us don’t waste time.

Congrats.

Jeremy: How’s Alex?

You pause, glance toward the hallway — quiet except for the faint clink of Mariana doing something in the kitchen.

Good. Date tomorrow.

Jeremy: Ooooh.

Don’t make it weird.

Jeremy: Too late.

You shake your head, grinning despite yourself.

Jeremy: Anyway. Next Sunday. Training. No excuses.

Fine.

You toss the Watch onto the coffee table and let yourself sink into the silence, the weight of the day pressing in.