The thing about building something real on old cracks was that it didn’t just exist in private.
It was visible.
In how she wrote.
In how he moved.
And in a city like New York, nothing that visible stayed unremarked on for long.
“You’re glowing,” Leah said dryly, sliding into the booth opposite Olivia at a coffee shop near city hall a week later. “Did you get a new moisturizer or a new man?”
Olivia nearly inhaled her coffee.
“We’re here to talk about oversight committees,” she said. “Not my… epidermis.”
“You wrote about open APIs like you were narrating a love letter,” Leah said, stirring her tea. “Don’t lie to me.”
Olivia set her mug down carefully.
“I wrote about open APIs like they’re the only thing standing between us and permanent vendor lock-in,” she said. “Which is… true.”
“Sure,” Leah said, eyes dancing. “And you managed to make Morrison sound like less of a god complex with each piece. That’s… new.”
“I’m not going easy on him,” Olivia said. “He still deserves half the headaches he’s got. I just… also see the ones he doesn’t deserve.”
Leah studied her.
“Look,” she said. “I don’t need details. I don’t *want* details. But as someone who’s going to be in the room when his company tries to ‘helpfully’ suggest ways to ‘streamline’ our meetings… I need to know where you stand.”
“Where I stand?” Olivia repeated.
“With him,” Leah said. “Personally. Professionally. Are you… in his corner now? No matter what? Are you… neutral? Are you… planning to stab him in the back if he screws up?”
Olivia took a breath.
“Personally?” she said. “I… care about him. A lot.”
Leah’s eyebrows went up.
“Professionally?” Olivia continued. “I’m still exactly where I was when I started writing about this. In my block’s corner. In your nephew’s corner. In my mother’s kitchen corner. If he screws them over, I’ll sharpen my knife.”
Leah considered.
“Okay,” she said finally. “That’s all I needed.”
“You’re not… worried?” Olivia asked cautiously.
“I’d be worried,” Leah said, “if you started writing like a press release. You haven’t. Your last piece on the kill switch made me want to set fire to Hart’s office again. You’re still… you. Just… with more kisses, probably.”
“Leah,” Olivia groaned.
“Relax,” Leah said, smirking. “I’m happy for you. Genuinely. It’s… rare for people like us to… get someone who actually respects what we do.”
Olivia’s throat tightened.
“Yeah,” she said softly. “It is.”
Leah’s gaze sharpened.
“Just remember,” she said. “No matter how many times he does your mother’s dishes, he’s still sitting on top of a machine that could do real damage if misused. Don’t let him make you forget that.”
“I won’t,” Olivia said.
“I know,” Leah said. “That’s why I’m here drinking this overpriced herbal thing instead of giving some smug tech writer an interview.”
Olivia smiled, relief loosening something in her chest.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For the overpriced herbal thing?” Leah said.
“For trusting me,” Olivia said.
Leah snorted.
“I trust your anger,” she said. “And your guilt. Those are way more reliable than ‘objectivity.’”
***
If Leah was the blunt friend, Raj was the chaotic one.
“So,” he said, dropping into the chair beside her at the office that afternoon, spinning once. “You and Morrison. Official now?”
She didn’t look up from her screen.
“Define ‘official,’” she said.
“Facebook status,” he said. “Meet-the-parents. Sleepover toothbrush.”
“Two out of three,” she said.
He whistled.
“Damn,” he said. “Which ones?”
“Not telling you,” she said.
“So… toothbrush and parents,” he deduced. “Got it.”
She glared at him.
“You’re impossible,” she said.
“I am a journalist,” he said. “Impossible is my skill set.”
He sobered slightly.
“I’m happy for you,” he added. “Figured I should say that before I start making terrible jokes again.”
Her chest warmed.
“Thanks,” she said. “Even if this whole thing implodes, I… think I’m glad I tried.”
“Welcome to the dark side,” he said. “We have emotions.”
“Gross,” she said.
He smirked.
“You tell Laura yet?” he asked. “About… the escalator kiss of doom?”
“Can you *not* call it that,” she said. “And yes. Sort of. She knows… we’re… seeing each other. Outside of council chambers.”
“And?” he asked.
“And she said, ‘Don’t get pregnant,’” Olivia said.
Raj snorted so hard he nearly fell out of the chair.
“I love her,” he wheezed.
“I hate both of you,” Olivia muttered.
***
Outside her immediate circles, the reaction was… less measured.
The gossip article had been a warning shot.
The panel confession had been a flare.
The moment someone caught a photo of her and Jake leaving his building together on a Saturday morning—her hair in a messy bun, his hand on the small of her back—was the grenade.
@PageSixNY: *SPOTTED: Tech billionaire Jake Morrison and Metro’s Olivia Martinez leaving his BK loft. Coffee… or more?*
The photo wasn’t even that damning.
No kissing. No scandalous angle.
Just… them. Together. Close.
But in the hands of an internet hungry for narrative, it was gasoline.
Comments exploded.
*I KNEW IT.* *So all her “hard-hitting” pieces were just foreplay?* *No wonder her coverage turned soft at the end.*
She read too many of them.
Against her better judgment.
Her stomach twisted.
Laura stormed into her cube an hour after the photo went live.
“Phone down,” she said. “Now.”
Olivia complied, guilt prickling.
“This is bullshit,” Laura said bluntly. “You know that, right?”
“Perception is reality,” Olivia said, echoing Fran.
“Perception is *loud,*” Laura corrected. “Not necessarily real. We knew this would happen if you… did this. We built safeguards. You’ve honored them. You disclosed. You stepped off direct coverage. You’re not sneaking around.”
“It still looks bad,” Olivia said quietly. “To some people. People who… matter.”
“People who want to believe women only get within three feet of power by sleeping with it,” Laura said. “Fuck them.”
The vehemence startled Olivia.
Laura softened slightly.
“Are you… happy?” she asked.
Olivia thought.
“Yes,” she said. “Scared. But… yeah.”
“Then hold that,” Laura said. “Because this job will take a lot from you. If it tries to take that too, you tell me, and we’ll go set fire to some tech bros’ desks together.”
Olivia huffed a laugh, eyes stinging.
“You don’t… think I should… stop?” she asked tentatively. “With him.”
Laura lifted an eyebrow.
“Do you?” she asked.
“…No,” Olivia admitted. “Not… right now.”
“Then no,” Laura said. “I’m not in the business of giving my reporters celibacy vows. You’re an adult. You’re making informed choices. If I see your work slip, I’ll tell you. If I see you… letting him off the hook when he doesn’t deserve it, I’ll assign Leah to write a guest column skewering both of you.”
“Terrifying,” Olivia said.
“Motivational,” Laura said.
She squeezed Olivia’s shoulder once, unexpectedly gentle.
“Eat something,” she added. “Hate scroll on an empty stomach and I *will* revoke your Slack privileges.”
***
Jake saw the photo around the same time.
Carla forwarded it with a terse, *Damage control plan in draft. Resist urge to tweet something flippant.*
He didn’t tweet.
He did text Olivia.
> You okay?
> Been better, she replied. > Laura is… on a warpath. > In a… protective way.
> Good, he wrote. > She should be.
> For what it’s worth, you look great in that photo. > Very… “woman who knows exactly what she’s doing, don’t fuck with her.”
> I was wearing your T-shirt, she sent. > Under the jacket.
> If people knew that, their heads would explode.
Three dots.
> Now *I’m* going to explode, he replied. > Thank you for that visual in the middle of a budget meeting.
She smiled despite herself.
> Focus on your board, she wrote. > I’ll handle the trolls.
> Please tell me if they get bad, he replied. > I mean… *worse.*
She hesitated.
Then:
> Someone left something on my door again, she wrote. > After the last article.
> Printout of the ethics disclosure line with “WHORE” sharpied over it.
Silence.
She almost regretted sending it.
Then:
> Liv, he wrote, the words tight even through text. > That’s… not just “trolls.” > That’s… harassment.
> Welcome to being a woman in public, she sent. > It’s not even the worst I’ve gotten.
> But I told building management this time. > And Sam.
> They’re installing a camera in the hallway.
> Good, he replied very quickly.
> And if you want, I can—
> Do *not* say “send my security,” she cut in. > I will block you on principle.
> …talk to a friend in the precinct, he finished. > But noted.
> No security detail. Yet.
> I’m not a head of state, she wrote. > Calm down.
> You are my head of state, he replied.
> …too much?
Her chest squeezed.
> A little, she sent. > But I’ll allow it.
> Now go back to your budget. > The city needs your Public Algorithms line item.
> Yes, ma’am, he wrote.
He didn’t tell her how his hands shook as he typed.
How rage, cold and sharp, built under his ribs at the thought of someone standing outside her door with a marker and an ugly word.
He channeled it into something productive.
Mostly.
He sent an angry email to his own security chief about stepping up monitoring around TerraNova’s own offices, where Olivia sometimes still came for interviews on non-Jake topics.
He didn’t send anyone to her door.
Yet.
He did do something else.
He called his therapist.
“I don’t want to become… controlling,” he said that evening, sitting cross-legged on his expensive couch like a teenager. “Every instinct I have says, ‘Lock it down. Fix it. Add more security. Add more code.’”
“And what does Olivia say?” Dr. Nayar asked.
He grimaced.
“She says, ‘I’m not your system,’” he said. “And she’s right. I can’t… patch her life.”
“And what can you do?” Dr. Nayar asked gently.
He hesitated.
“Be there,” he said slowly. “Listen. Believe her when she says this is… normal, but not okay. Support her when she… reports it. Not… override her.”
“Good,” Dr. Nayar said. “And what can you do with the anger?”
He looked at his hands.
“Use it,” he said. “To push harder on… systemic protection. On laws that actually go after harassment. On… the shitty platforms that let this stuff spread.”
“Anger as fuel,” she said.
“Yeah,” he said. “Harnessed. Not… exploded.”
“Like a grid,” she said.
He laughed, brief and pained.
“Like a grid,” he echoed.
***
The next Friday, Olivia went to his place again.
Not for a dramatic reason.
For pizza.
He’d ordered from the good place three neighborhoods over—the one with the blistered crust and the perfect balance of cheese and sauce.
They ate sitting on his kitchen island, bare feet swinging, slices dripping oil onto paper plates.
“So,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “I’ve been thinking.”
“Dangerous,” she said, echoing his earlier line.
“About… us,” he said.
Her stomach flipped.
“Just once,” she said, “I’d like you to start that sentence with ‘I’ve been thinking about tacos.’”
He smiled.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about tacos. And… us.”
She snorted.
“Better,” she said. “Proceed.”
He sobered.
“We should… talk about… what this is,” he said. “Label-wise.”
Her chest tightened.
“Oh God,” she said. “Are we in the part of the movie where we say ‘What are we?’”
“Yes,” he said. “Except this isn’t a movie. It’s… my building. And your pizza. And my extremely unromantic dishwasher humming in the background.”
She glanced at the stainless steel machine, whirring quietly.
Romance came in weird soundtracks.
“Okay,” she said. “What do you… want it to be?”
He took a breath.
“I want… girlfriend,” he said simply. “I want to be able to say that. To you. To my mother. To… Samir, when he asks why I’m smiling at my phone like an idiot.”
Heat flooded her face.
“Girlfriend,” she repeated.
“Unless you prefer ‘partner’ or ‘significant other’ or ‘woman who can destroy me with a properly placed comma,’” he said. “I’m flexible.”
She laughed, nervous.
“This is not exactly how I pictured this,” she admitted. “When I was twenty and imagined us… if we ever came back to each other.”
“How did you picture it?” he asked.
“Dramatic,” she said. “Grand gestures. Rooftop speeches. Possibly rain.”
“I can rent a sprinkler,” he offered.
She kicked his ankle gently.
“But,” she went on, “after everything… the hearings, the leaks, the late nights… pizza on a counter feels… right. More… real.”
“So,” he said, eyes searching hers. “Pizza-counter real… girlfriend?”
She swallowed.
Her brain flashed images of that damn disclosure line.
*The reporter and Mr. Morrison were in a relationship ten years ago.*
Soon, it would be *are*.
Her stomach knotted with anxiety.
And unfurled with something else.
Want.
“Yes,” she said, voice steadier than she felt. “Girlfriend.”
He stared at her for a second, like his brain needed a reboot.
Then he smiled.
Not the practiced, polite CEO smile.
Something open. Young. Almost boyish.
“Yeah?” he said.
“Yeah,” she said.
He leaned forward, cupped her face, and kissed her.
Not like the first time on the escalator. Not like the desperate making-out on his couch.
This was slower. Softer.
Sealing, not testing.
When they broke apart, foreheads touching, he murmured, “God, I missed… this.”
“Kissing journalists?” she said.
“Being… allowed to… feel this without… guilt,” he said.
Her throat tightened.
“It’s still messy,” she said.
“I know,” he said. “But… it’s ours.”
She smiled, small and fierce.
“Yeah,” she said. “It is.”
They sat like that for a moment.
Then his phone buzzed.
He groaned.
“Carla,” he said, glancing. “She knows. She has a sixth sense for happiness and tries to squelch it.”
She snorted.
“Tell her I said hi,” she said. “And that she should start drafting the joint statement now.”
He blinked.
“Joint statement?” he echoed.
She shrugged, trying to play it off.
“If this gets… more visible,” she said. “If the gossip sites keep… doing their thing. At some point, we either ignore it and let them write the story, or we… say something.”
He looked at her.
“You’d… be okay with that?” he asked. “With… us… public?”
Her stomach swooped.
“Yes,” she said slowly. “If… we do it on our terms. Not as some… fluff piece. As… ‘this is a thing, and here are the boundaries.’”
He considered.
“We’d get so much shit,” he said.
“We already are,” she pointed out.
He huffed a laugh.
“True,” he said. “Might as well… own it.”
He sobered.
“I’ll… talk to Carla,” he said. “And… you… talk to Laura. If… we do this, it has to work for both of us. And for… Metro.”
“And for your board,” she said.
He waved a hand.
“They care as long as the stock goes up,” he said. “If anything, a stable relationship might make them think I’m less likely to run off to a commune.”
“Tempting,” she said.
“Very,” he said.
He kissed her again.
Pizza forgotten, dishwasher humming, city lights flickering against the glass, they sat on the edge of something very, very big.
Not a launch.
Not a bill.
Just… two people choosing to step into the light together.
Knowing it would burn.
And doing it anyway.
---