Too Late for Your Sweet Forgiveness

Summary

My phone screen flickered to life against the unfinished wood of the coffee table.

A single preview from Harper:

“I rejected your promotion request. I gave the regional lead opening to Justin.”

I sat back on the floor of my newly leased, four-hundred-square-foot studio, an Allen wrench dangling from my fingertips. Next to me sat the heavy-duty ergonomic desk chair Brett had helped me pick out, claiming it would save my lower back during late-night gaming sessions.

I glanced at the screen, flipped the phone facedown, and went back to tightening the steel bracket under the seat.