Monday morning hit like a freight train, and you scrambled out of bed, grabbing your things in a frantic whirl—not because you were late (your alarm had buzzed right on time), but because of him. Daniel, that relentless shadow who wouldn't leave you alone these days, his presence lingering like smoke you couldn't wave away.
Ever since that charged night a few days back, he'd taken to parading the house half-dressed—towel slung low, muscles catching the light just so—flashing those sidelong glances that felt anything but accidental. Seduction? Or just another game? You couldn't tell, and that uncertainty gnawed at you like a loose thread.
You descended the grand staircase in your tailored work blouse and pencil skirt, heels clicking sharp against the marble steps, briefcase swinging at your side. And there he was, as if scripted: lounging at the kitchen island in nothing but a towel, steam rising from his coffee mug as he took a slow sip. His eyes flicked up, locking on yours, a smirk curling his lips.
Your breakfast waited on the dining table behind him—avocado toast artfully plated, fresh berries glistening beside a steaming latte, Margret's quiet artistry as always. But appetite? Vanished. You veered straight for the front door, jaw set, determined to ignore the pull.
"Have a great day at work," he called, voice smooth as polished stone, laced with that mocking warmth. It landed like a thorn, pricking deeper than he knew—or maybe exactly as intended. Uncertainties swirled; was it flirtation or a fresh jab?
You didn't answer. Didn't even glance back. Just stomped out, the heavy door slamming behind you with a satisfying thud. A low chuckle trailed you—you swore you heard it, soft and knowing—but skepticism clamped down hard. Tricks of the mind, echoes of old games. The morning air hit your face like a slap, carrying the faint scent of rain on pavement, and you strode to the waiting car, sliding into the back seat with Robert's quiet "Good morning, ma'am."
Work swallowed you whole, but you arrived a dimmed version of yourself—gloomy, hollowed out, the usual little spark snuffed under layers of fatigue. Colleagues noticed; whispers rippled through the open-plan floor like smoke signals. By mid-morning, the manager—, with his perpetual coffee stain on his tie and clipboard held like a shield—came over, clearing his throat awkwardly.
"On behalf of the team... lighten up a bit? They're, uh, concerned."
Concerned? The word ignited something feral. No one befriended you here—no lunch invites, no water-cooler chats, no one humoring your rare jokes with a laugh. Just sidelong stares and silent judgments, the toxic undercurrent of a place that chewed up the vulnerable and spat out husks. Your last thread snapped.
You flew up from your desk, screeching a raw "How dare you?" that echoed off the glass enclosure. Your hand lashed out, landing a sharp slap across his cheek—the crack ringing like a gunshot in the stunned silence. Hargrove reeled, hand flying to his reddening face, eyes wide as saucers. You unloaded then, words tumbling hot and unfiltered: "Lighten up? In this snake pit? Where every 'team player' stabs you in the back for a pat on the head? You want smiles? Try fixing the bullying, the whispers, the way this place grinds people down like cheap coffee!"
Customers froze mid-transaction—tellers gaping, lines halting as heads swiveled. Murmurs erupted like popcorn in a hot pan:
"Why's she overreacting like that?"
"Shouting in a bank? Unprofessional."
"I'm out—it's getting too heated in here."
"What's her problem anyway?"
Commentary layered on commentary, a chorus of judgment that drowned your roar. It crashed over you, wave after crushing wave—the toxicity, the isolation, the endless signs screaming you're not wanted. Enough. You were done playing their game.
Bag snatched from your drawer, you shoved past Him—his stunned "Wait—" lost in the shuffle—and barreled through the cluster of gawking colleagues, shoulders bumping. The lobby doors whooshed open, spilling you onto the bustling sidewalk, where midday sun beat down on honking taxis and suited pedestrians. You gulped the air—crisp with exhaust and street-vendor spices—tasting freedom for the first time in years. No more shackles, no more pretending. For once, fulfillment bloomed in your chest, light and fierce, like sunlight piercing fog.
You scanned the curb: not near closing, so Robert was off-duty, probably napping in his quarters. Taxis? You'd only ever taken two in your life—awkward rides that left you fidgeting with the fare. No. Walking it was. Your heels clicked purposeful against the pavement, carrying you two blocks to the familiar eatery—a cozy hole-in-the-wall with checkered floors and the sizzle of pakoras from the open kitchen. You claimed a corner booth, the vinyl squeaking under you, and ordered simple: a fizzy Sprite and a side of crispy fries, golden and salted just right.
As the waitress bustled away, you pulled out your phone, thumbs flying:
"Feeling somewhat sick—come take me home."
Robert's reply pinged back almost instantly: "...Okay, ma'am."
You smiled, a real one this time—small, but genuine. He was your rock, the one competent soul in a sea of flakes. The fries arrived steaming, and you nibbled absently, the tang of vinegar cutting the salt, as your mind wandered. A question bubbled up unbidden, sharp as the Sprite's bubbles:
Why did you let another Daniel get in your head?
The door chime jingled—Robert, right on time? No, just a customer. But as you waited, the weight of the morning settled: the slap's echo, the stares, the door you'd slammed on a chapter that never fit. Freedom tasted like fries and possibility... but what came next? A new job? A confrontation? Or nothing.