The Monday after the Very Public Declaration (a.k.a. Leo's speech-slash-love-confession-slash-the-night-I-didn't-pass-out-from-overwhelming-emotion), everything felt weirdly... normal. Which is to say, Brittany was already two cups into her cold brew and shouting about onboarding bugs, the espresso machine was still leaking with the spite of a caffeinated demon, and our intern accidentally deployed to live. Twice.
Ah. Bliss.
Leo had kissed me in front of a hundred people. I'd kissed him back. People had filmed it. Tagged us. #FoundersInLove was trending. Which, okay, cute, but also: terrifying.
"You're being weird," Brittany said, pausing at my desk and poking my cheek like I was a stress ball with feelings.
"I'm not being weird. I'm being... contemplative."
She narrowed her eyes. "You only get contemplative when you're about to make a spreadsheet. Or when you're spiraling."
"I'm not spiraling," I lied. Then spun around in my chair to hide the document labeled Worst Case Scenarios: Public Romance Edition.
Because here's the thing: falling in love is great. Publicly falling in love when you're the co-founder of a company that just barely survived a tech scandal? That's a PR nightmare in a sexy, emotionally vulnerable disguise.
I should have been happy. And I was. Sort of. Mostly. If you ignored the part of my brain running through all the ways this could crash and burn in spectacular, BuzzFeed-worthy fashion.
And Leo? Leo was thriving.
He strutted into the office like he was the rom-com.
"Good morning, team!" he beamed, passing out donuts like some kind of attractive Startup Santa.
"You're in a weirdly good mood," I said, squinting at him.
"Love looks good on me," he replied, winking like we hadn't just launched a product, a relationship, and a media circus all in one weekend.
I glared. "Stop being so smug."
He leaned in. "You kissed me in front of a crowd, Cleo. I get to be smug for at least seventy-two hours."
Fair.
We were still figuring it out. The new rhythm. The public us.
Before, it was easy to divide work and not-work. Now? Now Leo kissed me in the supply closet while I was looking for printer ink and told me I looked hot in stress-mode. Rude. Accurate. But rude.
Later that day, we had a check-in with our marketing team. It was supposed to be about campaign numbers.
It turned into a slideshow titled Cleo + Leo: The Brand We Didn't Know We Needed.
"This was meant to be about Q2 growth," I said, pointing at a pie chart shaped like a heart.
"It is," the marketing lead said. "Your love story is the growth."
I shot Leo a look.
He shrugged. "Look, if people like the story, let them."
"We're not a Netflix original."
"But if we were, you'd be the brilliant underdog coder with a sarcastic streak, and I'd be the lovable disaster with too much charm."
I stared. "You thought about this way too much."
He grinned. "I really have."
The day ended with a flurry of bug reports, a coffee run disaster (Brittany spilled oat milk all over her keyboard and screamed like she'd been personally betrayed), and Leo grabbing my hand under the desk during our all-hands meeting like we were teens in a high school play.
It was a lot.
By the time I got home, I was exhausted. Not just work-exhausted, but emotionally jet-lagged from this new, surreal reality.
And then my mom called.
Because the universe never gives you a break, just a commercial break.
"Hi sweetheart," she said sweetly, which meant she was about to ask a question that would spike my blood pressure.
"Hi, Mom. Please don't ask if we're engaged."
"Are you engaged?!"
"MOM."
"I'm just saying, you kissed a man onstage. Your grandmother saw it. Twice. She keeps rewinding the video."
I groaned into a pillow.
She sighed. "Sweetie. I'm happy for you. Just... be careful."
That stopped me.
"Careful?"
"You've always been the smart one. The one who builds. But love... it's messy."
I didn't have a smart answer for that. Just silence.
Love was messy. And I wasn't used to letting mess in.
After I hung up, I sat there for a long time. Thinking about risk. About reward. About the parts of myself I'd never shown anyone until Leo barreled into my life with his grin and his arguments and his infuriating ability to see me.
The next morning, I came in early. Sat at my desk. Opened a new doc.
Titled: What If We're Enough?
Leo walked in, hair messy, coffee in hand. He blinked at me.
"You're here early."
"I couldn't sleep."
"Worried?"
"Hopeful," I said. Then added, "Also worried. But, like, 70/30."
He sat beside me. "Let's build something good. The company. Us."
"You think we can do both?"
He bumped my shoulder. "We already are."
And for once, I believed him.
Not because of the donuts or the mic speech or the way he kissed me like he meant it.
But because he stayed. Through my spirals. Through my lists. Through every messy, terrified version of me.
That's real love.
And maybe, just maybe, I was brave enough for it.