"Hands Tied, Mind Fucked: Power Plays, Slow-Burn Torture, and the Collapse I'm Desperately Dodging"

I try to stay locked into the conversation, nod along, laugh at jokes with just the right volume—not too enthusiastic, not too disinterested. But I can feel him. Even from across the room. It's been three weeks and something, days since I've seen him, in person, but it's like my body just knows the exact frequency of his presence.

And it's strange. Seeing him like this, half-lit by bar light, half-shielded behind work jokes and surface-level charm. He's "just August" here—smart, sharp, quick with numbers and quicker with sarcasm. To them, he's all clean edges and good shirts. Neat. Contained.

But that version feels... fictional now. A LinkedIn avatar at best.

The FaceTimes, the texts, all those little windows into his world—they cracked that image wide open.

I know he listens to 90s alt-rock while he works because it makes spreadsheets feel less dead. We bonded over Green Day in five seconds flat. But where I'm noise and Sum 41, he's The Killers—melodic, moody, suspiciously well produced. I told him he was emotionally repressed for ranking Human above Mr. Brightside, and he laughed so hard he choked on his beer. Now I catch myself saying dumb things on purpose just to get that sound again. It's become my favorite game.

We traded book recommendations. I watched him roll his eyes several times getting through Murakami's A Wild Sheep Chase. I watched him try to survive my dramatic reading of The Fall of Icarus in a fake British accent. The only real way for me to get through it. I almost called the whole thing off when he called Ovid "a prophet of modern decay ahead of his time." I said he's just glorified daddy with a superiority kink. He nearly spat his wine out. "He was an emotionally constipated father," he admitted eventually, "but the prose is immaculate." I booed him so hard he muted me.

His bookshelf's a museum of gloom and ash—Plath, Camus, Bolano, Didion. I called it his ashtray library. He called me a gremlin. I think we both liked it more than we should have.

He's got a busted skateboard in his hallway he refuses to throw out—"nostalgia's a bitch," he said, grinning. He feeds his two best friends every week like a moody, tattooed housewife. Wears an apron. Still somehow looks hot in it. He owns about a thousand of the same white T-shirt, stacked like clones in his closet. I used to think it was boring. Now I get it—uniform means control. No surprises. Honestly, I'd do it too if I found something that made me look that good.

He keeps Skittles in his desk drawer and eats them in strict color order like it's a sacrament. When I mocked him, he said, dead serious, "Structure is sexy." I snorted wine out my nose.

He boxes when talking doesn't cut it. Says punching things clears his head. And when he told me he has tattoos, I felt this flutter of curiosity—warm and sharp—before I slammed the vault door on it. Hard.

That's how we became this close. Through mockery and defense and low-stakes literary warfare.

And now I know too much.

And I can't un-know any of it.

So seeing him here, laughing at something beige about ROI or cloud migration or whatever, feels... disorienting. The laugh instinctively has me bite my lower lip, usually my gift - my reward. Although I wasn't the one earning it. This is not.. our space.

I'm hyper-aware of him. Of us. Of how close I got without realizing. Of how dangerous it is to know someone like this and still pretend we're just colleagues.

Because no matter how out-of-place he looks to me tonight, in that crisp shirt and clean persona, I've seen the layers underneath.

And I'm not sure I'll ever be able to unsee them.

So I pivot.

Hard.

I launch myself into the group like a woman possessed. I refill drinks. I ask loud, enthusiastic questions. I tell a story about an intern who thought ROI stood for "Really Obvious Insight" and land the punchline like I've rehearsed it. I laugh too hard. Nod too eagerly. Drop names from my last project like I'm auditioning for a promotion I don't want. I start charming people I don't even like—flirting lightly with someone from the German office just to prove I can.

I'm too animated. Too bright. Too on. But no one seems to notice.

Except him.

Every now and then, I catch it—August's eyes on me. Steady, unreadable. Like he sees exactly what I'm doing and won't call me on it. Like he's just waiting to see how long I can keep it up.

And that's the thing—I can. I've done it before. Turned myself into the most functional, magnetic version of myself just to outrun my own thoughts. It's a survival tactic. Maybe a bad one. But tonight, it's all I've got.

So I keep going. Keep laughing. Keep moving.
Because if I stop, I'll remember the color order of his Skittles.

And I can't afford to remember that.

***

Eventually, people start peeling off. I try not to overthink it when we end up in the elevator together. Just the two of us—not sure if he or I masterminded it. Maybe both.

The silence stretches—warm, borderline smug on his side. I feel it before I see it: the weight of his gaze, the tug of a grin I can practically hear.

"You were on fire tonight," he says finally. "I mean, I knew you were good, but that was a performance."

I glance over. "I was being friendly."

He nods, slowly. "Mhm. Sure. Just standard, everyday friendly. With seventeen individual compliments, a record-breaking conversation-per-minute ratio, and a laugh that was precisely fourteen percent too loud."

I roll my eyes. "I can be extroverted."

He raises a brow. "Yeah, but you hit 'extrovert demo mode' like you were going for gold at the Olympics."

"Wow."

"I'm just saying," he adds, mock-innocent. "You've been texting me like we're in a committed long-distance friendship, but the second we're in the same room? You won't even look at me. Except now, when you're stuck in an elevator and your cheeks are turning a very suspicious shade of pink."

I snap my face forward. "I was just busy. Socializing."

He hums. "Right. You'll FaceTime me at 1 a.m. from bed, but in real life? Full strategic avoidance. It's cute."

"I wasn't avoiding you."

"Sure. And we're not secret friends."

I pause. "...We're not."

He gasps, mock-wounded. "So that emoji-only check-in you sent Tuesday? The Skittles photo? That was for your newsletter subscribers?"

I stifle a laugh. "Shut up."

He grins. "It's okay. Your secret's safe. Elevator confessions don't count."

The elevator dings. We step out in silence.

Of course, his door's next to mine. The universe is not subtle.

He stops, leans lightly against his frame. "Goodnight," he says, tone easy.

"Goodnight," I echo, trying to swipe my keycard with more confidence than I feel.

Red light. Obviously.

"You good there?" he asks, eyes gleaming. "Need emotional support?"

"Nope. Just bonding. With technology."

"Sure. Very natural. Goodnight, then."

I keep swiping. Still red. "You already said goodnight."

"Just making sure it sticks," he says, turning his key effortlessly. "You've been a little distracted."

"Sleep well," I mutter, as the lock finally flashes green.

"You too," he calls softly. "Secret friend."

I close the door behind me before I make more of an ass of myself. A quiet breath leaves my chest, half sigh, half grounding exercise. It's fine. We're friends. That's all. I don't need another Felix, and I definitely can't turn August into that.

I remind myself—friends don't blur lines, don't spiral into late-night comfort and morning confusion. Friends. Don't. Fuck.

I drop my bag onto the bed like it's proof I'm staying on my side of the line. Detain, detour, distract—whatever it takes. Just friends. The relief that follows is shaky, but it's there. I can do this.

***

I prepped three full-length synopses for our client-vendor negotiation training, which basically ate my entire week. The instructors wanted detail—so much detail, I felt like I was writing a trilogy. Nick gloated the whole time, especially when I had to stay late. Apparently, that was my punishment for bailing on our cleanse. Honestly, the man already gave me a solid crash course in negotiation just by existing.

We take turns roleplaying vendors and clients in front of the group—like corporate improv, which sounds like hell but is weirdly kind of fun. Nick's charming, I'm apparently terrifying. We both win most rounds, but there's still plenty to learn. The Dutch are drained, the Spanish keep slipping out of English, and the Belgian girls look like they'd rather fake a power outage.

Then it's the Swedes' turn. August steps up.

He's cool, composed, and smug enough to make it look easy. I pretend to scroll my phone while I absolutely watch every second. He negotiates with Clara—Belgian, nervous, determined. But August doesn't flinch. He dismantles her argument like he's defusing a bomb. Calm, efficient, precise. By the end, she's laughing awkwardly and practically handing him her wallet. Everyone claps. He leans back like he didn't just assassinate someone's confidence.

"He destroyed her," I whisper to Nick.

Then, before I can stop myself: "...infuriatingly magnetic."

Nick side-eyes me and lifts a brow. "Please keep your kinks in check, Thirsterika."

***

We're all beat from beating each other—torn apart in negotiations and stitched together by shared humiliation. Everyone's lost at least one fake contract. It's like a mass humbling, and honestly, kind of beautiful.

I only got four, maybe five hours of sleep, and most of the day has been a blur of bruised egos and caffeine. I don't really know why, just that it definitely wasn't because of August's jaw, shoulders, or anything like that.

Our reward for surviving the bloodbath? A sunny peak-july boat tour of the canals. Dinner included.

Nick and I had rolled our eyes hard when we first saw it on the agenda back in Copenhagen. Dinner on a boat? Please. When the view is the main event, the food's guaranteed to be sad. But now, after a full day cooped up in a bunker of a conference room, it feels like an actual treat. Fresh air, still-warm daylight, the soft churn of water under us—it's shockingly perfect.

Even the pickup feels glamorous. We all changed and regrouped in front of the hotel like we were about to board a yacht to Cannes. I've never been collected by boat before, but I think I could get used to it.

The pace is slow and lazy in that blissful post-work way. The canals wind around us, packed bow to stern with what I now generously call my peers. I had pre-braced for stiff conversation and strained smiles, but the vibe's... good? Like, weirdly good.

Somehow, everyone's dropped the act. The Belgian and Spanish teams are locked in an aggressive debate over hotdog toppings like it's NATO business. The Dutch are heroically keeping everyone's cups full, and people are dodging mustard drips like it's a competitive sport. It's chaos, but warm chaos.

There's laughter—real, clumsy, half-delirious laughter. I watch one of the Swedes nearly drop his beer trying to high-five a Dutch guy for correctly guessing what rød grød med fløde actually means. Everyone's sun-drowsy and slightly buzzed, riding high on endorphins and low expectations. It's the first time all week the group actually feels like people instead of titles and polished LinkedIns.

I catch myself smiling. Not politely. Actually smiling.

Maybe it's the exhaustion. Maybe the fresh air finally hit. But suddenly, I like them. All of them. Even the ones who called me "Miss Denmark" all day like I'm a Eurovision contestant. There's something about sharing a mutual defeat—and a questionable hotdog—that really brings people together. Maybe I've been a bit too harsh. Maybe I just needed a boat, a breeze, and an aggressively mediocre dinner to remember I actually like humans. Occasionally. In small, sun-drenched doses.

It isn't long before August and the hedgehog come over. Despite my best efforts, there's only so many places you can hide on a boat. I catch them out of the corner of my eye and pretend to be surprised when they enter Nick's and my small circle. As if I didn't already know August's exact location at all times.

"Hey, Frederika. Remember me?" Martin—the hedgehog—says cheerfully. I almost call him that out loud before catching myself.

"Yeah, Martin. Of course. Hi."

"Evening," August says, grinning like he knows something I don't.

"Uh—hey," I manage, voice cracking just enough to make Nick snort into his drink.

"Glad to see my peacekeeping efforts paid off," Martin says, practically glowing with smug satisfaction.

I try to laugh, but it sounds more like a hiccup. Nick gives me a look—eyebrow raised, clearly sniffing out mess.

"Stockholm was... something else," Martin adds, teasing.

Nick leans in. "Wait. Mild drama or full‑blown soap opera?"

August shrugs, smiling. "Martin dragged us out of a silent standoff."

"HR duties," Martin says. "Unpaid, but obviously underappreciated."

"Oh my god," I groan. "Can we not make this a thing?"

"Too late," Martin replies, grinning.

August gives me a look. "And thanks for not ghosting me anymore. Like, at all. Really appreciate that."

The heat crawling up my neck is immediate. Nick clocks it.

"Sounds like someone's enjoying whatever conversation Martin and I are definitely not invited to."

I roll my eyes, biting down a smile.

"So, you two actually made up?" Nick prods. "Like, for real?"

"We're coworkers," I say, straight-faced.

Martin snorts. "You're adorable."

"Just two professionals," August adds, locking eyes with me—then mouthing for now like he's daring me to contradict him.

Nick leans back, hands behind his head. "Honestly? Feels like we're all trapped in a rom‑com."

"Don't push it," I mutter.

The banter melts into laughter, folding us into the warm hum of voices around the boat. It's oddly disorienting—having our private chaos spill out into this semi-public, buzzed reality. And having August this close doesn't feel quite as dangerous as it used to. Still tempting. But... manageable.

The canal walls glow gold as the sun sinks lower. Honestly? The beer helps. Even the hotdogs didn't ruin my life.

One of the Spanish guys is mid‑monologue about his plan to automate roommate chores, and I actually chuckle. Around us, the delegation is still a mess—awkward, slightly sunburned, and weirdly lovable.

Maybe they're not so bad after all. Or maybe I'm just tired, tipsy, and giving humanity another chance.

***

The four of us step into the lift—Nick, Martin, August, and me—and for once, the universe gives me a break. No awkward silences, no unspoken feelings flaring up, just quiet company and the soft hum of the elevator.

When the doors slide open on our floor, we split—Nick and Martin to the right, August and I to the left. We walk side by side down the corridor, and even without looking, I feel every inch of him.

"Need help with your door tonight?" he asks, low and amused. That fucking smugness practically built into his vocal cords.

I keep my gaze ahead. That feels safest. "No," I say, crisp. "Think I've finally cracked the code."

I chew my lip, mostly to stop myself from saying something stupid. Or honest.

He slows as we reach his door but doesn't move to unlock it. Just stands there, looking too comfortable in the silence.

"Goodnight, then," he says. It lands more like a test than a send-off.

I clutch my keycard like it might bolt. "Goodnight. See you tomorrow."

Only then do I let myself glance at him.

"Sleep tight," he says, eyes steady on mine.

"Yeah, you too," I manage, voice barely holding together. My cheeks go up in flames. I've never had better circulation in my life—from a goodnight, no less.

I head straight for a cold shower. I tell myself it's the long day, the conference room, the summer heat.

And not the boy standing outside room 208.

***

I lay in bed, half-buried under stiff hotel sheets, skin still humming from the cold shower that did absolutely nothing. I roll over to plug in my phone and notice a new text.

I lay in bed, half-buried under stiff hotel sheets, skin still humming from the cold shower that did absolutely nothing. My body's tired in that buzzy, overstimulated way that only comes from not enough sleep and too much socializing. I roll over to plug in my phone and see a new text waiting.

August: Made it in okay? Door didn't bully you this time?

I smirk and text back:

Me: No bullying. Door and I are in a good place now. Practicing healthy boundaries.

His dots appear immediately.

August: Proud of you. Growth is sexy.

I roll my eyes so hard my brain shifts slightly in its casing.

August: Movie?

Me: Wow, does that line actually work past the age of 15 and out of summer camp? Watch one more teen classic and you'll start asking me to prom.

August: I clearly meant on separate screens. What kind of colleague do you take me for?

August: Unless you want to act out any prom fantasies of yours?

I bark out a laugh and type back:

Me: Wow. You're really committing to Nick's rom-com theory.

August: Sounds like you need inspiration. How's You've Got Mail? About Time? Friends with Benefits?

Me: I think you're the one in need—how about Gone Girl, Clueless, or Gone in 60 Seconds?

August: Clueless it is.

Me: It suits you. Goodnight, colleague.

August: Sleep tight, secret friend.

I toss the phone onto the pillow beside me like it might detonate if I stare too long. This is fine. Totally normal. Friendly. Harmless.

I close my eyes and repeat it like a bedtime prayer:
Just friends. Just friends. Just friends who absolutely do not text like this.
Friends who definitely don't watch teen classics across hotel rooms.
Friends who do not, under any circumstances, go to prom.

***

I feel like a mamma goose, trying to nudge Nick as fast as possible out of the breakfast buffet and towards our conference room for the day. Nick seems confused by my sudden eagerness to show up to class early.

Our presenter yesterday was okay, maybe good. Today we're getting an ex-military lead hostage negotiator to train us. The ulterior motive is, of course, how he'll show us how to maximize the price of our projects. At first glance of the itinerary, I felt weird. We're consultants, negotiating the price of a project. We're not freeing hostages, ironing out peace treaties, or just.. cops or something.

After mulling the description over a couple of times, it began to seem quite appealing. I might be able to lower my rent, or make second hand designer bags affordable. Maybe even talk Rick into adopting me.

Okay.

Maybe the plethora of options this skill will unlock for me is somewhat interesting. But rushing Nick this morning has nothing to do with that. Really, I was just eager to keep myself sheltered from my very tempting next door neighbour.

I want a seat in the back, from there I'd only see August from behind, a blur of shoulders and profile, nothing more. Perfect plan for seven hours in corporate grey shades of boring. Nick grunts as I pull his sleeve towards the back, still not entirely sure what's gotten into me.

Nick claims the corner, and I slip into the chair on his left. I let out a breath I didn't even realize I was holding, almost daring to believe—for a fleeting second—that I can spend the day unnoticed, tucked in the back, safe.

But the thoughts creep in anyway: him turning, looking at me. And worse, sliding into the empty seat beside mine. Close enough that I'd feel the heat of him, close enough that I'd catch his scent, hear his voice meant just for me. And I know—know with a humiliating certainty—that I wouldn't hear a single word anyone else said after that.

August walks in, determined to torture me it seems. White T-shirt, navy suit, just the right oversize. His hair looks like he came straight from doing a shampoo commercial.

As I meet his eyes, blood immediately rushes to my cheeks. He responds with an amused smile. Like he knows exactly the effect he has on my body.

My plan was bulletproof.

That is... until he takes the seat next to me like it's the most natural thing in the world.

I swallow hard, and then comes that laugh—light, careless, lethal. I can only hope I show a fraction of what that very sound does to me.

I turn my back to him, look at Nick, whisper "Switch with me".

Nick's lips curl slightly, revealing just a hint of mischief, then mouths "not in this lifetime"

I roll my eyes and feel my jaw tense. Lean back in my seat, eyes forward.

August leans in, so close I can feel his warmth. whispers in my ear, "Doing you a favor really - can't have you missing any more sessions, just because you can't stop staring at me."

I can't look at him, and almost stutter as I reply, "Don't flatter yourself"

He scoffs. He fucking scoffs. It immediately pushes every single button in me.

I turn to send him a glare. Big mistake. I'm so close to him I can feel his warm breath, our noses almost touching.

He looks smug, like this is exactly the reaction he wanted out of me. Then he leans in and whispers,

"You can act clueless all you want, but those eyes—and those rosy cheeks—keep giving you away."

He turns away just as the military dude walks in. I grit my teeth, realizing I've missed the perfect comeback. Well, not that I actually had that.

***

The art of negotiating boils down to one lesson, really: never compromise.

Nick and I scribble a friendly wager in our notebooks. I put any wish at stake. Nick puts his seat at stake. I confidently predict General Hulk's shirt buttons will lose to his bulging pecks by lunch. Nick bets post-lunch.

Before I know it, the mock negotiations begin. Mr. Military's cases are exceptionally basic, maybe even useful. He did make it challenging, when he decided to pair me with August. My ever-charming seatmate, now sitting directly across from me and looking way too pleased with himself.

I hope he can't tell how terrified I am. His gaze is sharp and steady, practically daring me to blink first. I still remember how he dismantled that Belgian girl yesterday—the effortless way he controlled the room. I don't know which is worse: knowing I might be next, or surviving looking straight at him for this long.

The conference room hums softly with murmurs and scratching pens as talents scribble notes and toss out ridiculous offers about who should do the dishes. The worksheet in front of me says it all:

Case Study: Who Does the Dishes?
Winner is the one who doesn't.

Suddenly, this imaginary chore feels absurdly real.

August smirks, twirling a pen between his fingers with slow, deliberate grace. His eyes flick to mine, gleaming with amusement and something more dangerous—possibility. "So, Ms. Opponent, let's start with the facts. I made a glorious Ragú"

I arch an eyebrow, leaning back just enough to keep my distance but close enough to feel his presence like a charged wire. "It was good. But because you insisted on making the pasta yourself, I was hangry for two hours."

He leans in, elbows resting on the table, hands loosely clasped, fingers tapping a silent rhythm. "Oh? So your opening offer is: I should do both dinner and the dishes?"

I bite back a smile, crossing my arms as if to shield myself from the charm assault. "I can cook too. I should get chef's privileges."

He shoots me a look—the kind that says I'm hopeless but adorable. His eyes lock with mine, and for a second, I forget the ridiculous task in front of us.

He shrugs, lips quivering upward, eyes sparkling like he's savoring the moment. "I think giving me food poisoning and making me do the dishes is a little harsh."

The lecturer passes by, nodding approvingly. "Good, good—dig into your counterpart's motivations! Let's hear some creative offers!"

I roll my eyes. "Fine. You cook. But I'm not doing the dishes."

He leans back, smug grin in place. "Thank you." His voice drops just a little, a teasing lilt curling the edges. "I appreciate you caring for my overall health."

I feel the mock complement getting to me in ways it really shouldn't. I really do need to shut this down, fast. All in. High risk - high return. Element of surprise.

I raise my chin, refusing to look vulnerable. "How about this—if you do the dishes, you get to pick the movie tonight?"

His grin falters for the briefest second before he recovers, cocky as ever. "You've got to be kidding me. Are you serious?"

I lift my hands in mock surrender, a slow smile creeping across my face. "Just trying to land a deal here. One movie."

"In your room?" His voice is mock-shocked, eyes dancing with mischief.

"Seems very unlikely" I retort.

"Okay, my room then." His gaze lingers, and I swear he's enjoying this far too much.

I raise a brow, trying to freeze every muscle in my face. He's charming—too charming. Almost impossible to resist.

"Okay, deal," I say, extending my hand while trying not to tremble. Surprise flickers in his eyes before the corner of his lips curl upward.

His hand closes over mine, thumb brushing softly, deliberately over my skin—just enough to send my pulse racing.

Before I can pull away, I add, voice steady but heart pounding, "You make dinner, do the dishes, pick the movie. A glorious evening with you and yourself. "

I see the confusion in his eyes, before he realizes what deal he just signed.

"Don't..." he breathes.

"Play dirty?" I smirk. "I'm clearly just adhering to the terms here, never said I would attend."

"No, it's just plain dirty." His eyes narrow slightly, serious but playful, and he doesn't let go of my hand.

"Well, nothing we can do about that now, right?" I try to yank my hand free, but his grip tightens just a fraction.

He leans in close, lowering his voice to a whisper that sends a shiver down my spine. "You know, I really didn't think it would come to this... But if you don't honor our deal, I might just need to send Richard a very elaborate note about what happened in the maintenance clos-"

I place my hand on his mouth before another word spills out. Eyes darting around the room, heart thudding in my chest. Anyone could have heard that. I whisper, "You wouldn't"

He eye me to remove my hand for him to reply.

"Well, I'd much rather watch a movie with you" he says, playfulness in his eyes completely intact.

I sigh, lean back in the chair and cross my arms. There's nothing I can say really.

When we'd settled back into our seats, Mr. Military had each pair cite key arguments and win. Some'd traded an ice cream truck in exchange for doing the dishes, another one had given up their first born. August spoke on our behalf, a very proud loser - he got the dishes but avoided food poisoning.

I roll my eyes, as he proudly finishes and looks at me. If there was ever a lesson here, I don't get it. I'm dead certain I will learn absolutely nothing from this.

We sit back, and by the time lunch comes around, I'm dying to free myself. I play along at lunch, exchanging battle stories and what not. In the back of my mind, I'm plotting how to escape August.

My one viable option was winning my bet to Nick, And to my great dismay, General Hulk's button down shirt still had all its buttons before we broke for lunch.

I beg Nick to switch seats with me anyway, but he's putting up a fight. His need for entertainment clearly overpowers any love he has for me.

I can feel how my body has gradually tensed in the time I spend enveloped in his scent, the side glances, the accidental grazing of arms. I'm incapable at this point to withstand any of it. In a desperate attempt to increase the distance to August's seat, I push my chair towards Nick. As August enters, we're in a stool fight-off fit for 6th graders.

I freeze as I notice him. Just to watch him as he pulls off his blazer, folds it over the back of his seat, and pulls out my chair for me. He's infuriating. The look on his face screams entertained, and playing along. I mutter a few curse words before I sit down. He eases the chair back in toward the table, and sits down.

I bet he thinks I'm blushing because of him, really I'm fuming - angry - with myself for even putting myself in this situation. I'm embarrassed, being seen, by anyone really, in a situation where I was clearly acting like I was twelve.

My inner tantrum is interrupted as I feel my chair being pulled to the side. August is facing me. One hand planted like he owns the back of my chair. The other brushes against the bare skin of my thigh just where my suit-shorts end. That's when I realize that he's also still in 6th grade.

"That's better" He simply says.

My mind goes blank, still not quite processing what just happened. My eyes just follow him lean back, casually sliding his arm to rest over the back of my chair.

My eyes flick to Nick just as he tries—and fails—to hold back a too-loud laugh. His face lights up with pure mischief, eyes sparkling as if he's watching a show he can't get enough of. He silently mouths, Game over, while wagging a finger at me with a wicked grin—clearly loving my flustered state.

"Team, this is it. One last push before we wrap up. Eyes sharp, minds sharper." General button yells from center stage. His tone automatically draws full attention, but the words somehow seem directed for me.

I just need to shove him away for a little longer. Stay busy. Recite the reasons—all the reasons—he's wrong for me.

He's Swedish—practically a different timezone away.
He's the kind of man built for "forever," and forever is... not exactly in my skill set.
And work? Right. Mixing business with... whatever this is would be catastrophic, more than it already is. He's a colleague, a friendly colleague who I text with.. a lot, a talent‑competitor, an occasional pain in my ass—that's all he'll ever be.

I repeat it like a mantra, but the words blur when he's this close, when his arm drapes across the back of my chair like it belongs there, when that low, stupid laugh of his hooks into my chest like a magnet. I hate that he makes it this hard to think. It's like all thoughts are frayed in the ends.. Well, and beginnings. I hate that I don't know how to just be around him.

I shove the thoughts down, claw back some illusion of control—until his knee brushes mine under the table. Once. Then again. And then... it just stays there, warm against mine, like he owns the space between us.

I knock my knee into his—a wordless warning. He answers with another nudge. We go a few silent rounds, my taps turning sharper, my frustration powering one last jab harder than I mean.

He doesn't budge. Not even a flicker in his face.

Then, as if to prove some maddening point, his knee leans into mine again, determined to stay. Heat shoots straight through me. I grab his thigh under the table and shove—firm, decisive.

Before I can yank my hand back, his palm closes over mine. A trap. I twist, trying to free myself without making a scene, but his grip doesn't move. My nails dig in, a last desperate tactic, but before I make real progress, he turns my hand over in his, slow and deliberate... and then he intertwines our fingers.

I don't know why, but I just.. don't resist.