At least Stephanie is asking you for a favor, and you like the idea that she's putting yourself at least a little bit in your debt. It's the closest you've ever come—the closest you're ever likely to come—to standing on something like an equal footing with her.
"Sure, I think I can help with that," you say. "What is it you need moved?"
"Just some old junk. Won't fit in anybody's back seat."
"Okay. So how do we want to, uh, coordinate? Like, where do I need to go and—?"
"I'll ride with you," she says," and give you directions."
Whoa. "Alright, that sounds like a, uh, a plan."
"I guess it does."
Then she sits back with her iPhone. That appears to be the end of the conversation, so you retreat to your own seat.
You're distracted (naturally) and your feet catch on something, and you just stop yourself from falling on your face by grabbing at an empty desk. The hissed laugh tells you what happened even before you turn to see Rennerhoff leering at you. He tucks his feet back under the desk.
What is this, third grade or something?
You glance back at Stephanie, to see if she noticed this latest humiliation, but she's absorbed in texting.
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