“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says.
You keep your eyes on the barcode labels you are stacking. “I’ve been working.”
A flicker of amusement touches his mouth. “That too.”
You straighten and face him. “Was there something else you needed to correct for the company, Mr. Ibarra?”
The title is deliberate. A wall built from syllables.
He notices. Of course he notices.
“No,” he says. “I wanted to ask if the room is acceptable.”
You cross your arms. “You mean if poverty can adapt to decent towels?”
He absorbs the hit without reacting. “I mean if you feel safe there.”
Safe.
The word lands weirdly.
Safe has always sounded to you like something wealthy people say when they mean comfortable. But in the last forty-eight hours, safe has turned specific. A locked door. A shower taken without fear. Sleep that doesn’t require arranging your body for defense. You still don’t trust the word, but now you can at least identify its outline.
“Yes,” you admit.
“Good.”
He should leave then.
That would be the normal ending. Rich man checks on problem, receives answer, exits with dignity intact. Instead he remains there beside the pallets, hands in his pockets, jaw working slightly like there is something else he shouldn’t say and knows it.
Finally he asks, “How are the ribs?”
You go still.
Nobody at work knows about that. Not even Marisol. You told him once in an aisle before dawn, and somehow he remembered. That unsettles you more than any bouquet or dramatic rescue could have.
“They healed,” you say.
“Badly?”
You laugh once without humor. “Is this how executives make small talk?”
His gaze doesn’t move. “No. I’m asking because I keep thinking about it.”
That shuts you up.
The dock noise blurs around you. For one charged second the world narrows to fluorescent spill, engine hum, and the impossible fact of a man like him admitting he cannot stop thinking about a thing that happened to you.
You recover first.
“That sounds like a you problem.”
Something in his face almost becomes a smile, then doesn’t. “Probably.”
Before you can answer, Rogelio appears, clipboard tucked under his arm, irritation already mounted on his face.
“There you are,” he says to you, then notices Alejandro and visibly rearranges his spine. “Sir. I didn’t realize you were…”
“Speaking with Camila,” Alejandro says.
Rogelio nods too quickly. “Right. Well. There’s a discrepancy in the picking logs from last Thursday. I need her to re-count section C inventory after shift.”
Your stomach sinks. Section C inventory is at least ninety extra minutes of unpaid irritation disguised as accountability. Rogelio has been assigning those little punishments for months to workers he dislikes, knowing most people are too exhausted or scared to push back. Usually you endure it because jobs are easier to lose than pride is to feed.
