The house smells like lemon cleaner. And dog. These homeowners have a male black lab. You and Tyler have cleaned this place a dozen times together, narrating every room, laughing at the homeowner's weird decor choices, making three hours feel like thirty minutes. Today the vacuum is the only thing talking. Tyler moves through each room just ahead of you, close enough that you keep almost bumping into him, far enough that it feels intentional. He hasn't looked at you once since you arrived. Last Saturday, something shifted. While coming around the corner at the same time, you and Tyler collided, then fell. You kept your full weight from crushing the boy, but Tyler cant stop forgetting the feeling of a man on top of him. Nobody said anything after. Nobody has said anything since. But the silence between you now is a different kind of weight, and this house isn't big enough to outclean it.