"Networking for Masochists: A Survival Memoir"

The floor of my bedroom looks like World War III decided to drop by for a sleepover. My morning routine? Obliterated by the looming horror of seeing August at 9:00 a.m. My indecision about what to wear is hitting new heights—higher than my self-esteem has ever dared.

My "crime" is fuzzy at best, but my kidneys? They're screaming the truth. Every faint memory lands like a gut punch. I feel bad for August, his poor shin, and myself. But for me, self-pity doesn't stick around long—it quickly morphs into self-badgering. The inner voice screaming Why I couldn't handle this like an adult? For once, properly apologize without turning into an awkward 13-year-old? Whatever tiny sliver bit of flirting - really just playing with fire - gone, Six feet under, RIP.

Time for armor. Lots of it. The colder I can look, the less likely anyone — especially August — will even consider glancing my way.

I throw on a black three-piece suit I thrifted last winter — vest snug, blazer oversized (but not padded, I'm not doing Wall Street cosplay), and tailored mini shorts that ride the line between effort and intimidation. Still office loafers — black Prada, secondhand because I enjoy aesthetic contradictions and also paying my bills.

It's severe. Bare legs, sharp lines, nothing soft to cling to. No shirt underneath the vest — just skin and structure. Something about that feels powerful. Inaccessible.

I catch my reflection and immediately regret not shaving my head when I had the chance. My long blonde hair ruins the whole vibe — too welcoming, too easy to misinterpret. Like I might smile if approached. I won't. But the hair doesn't know that.

Still, it'll have to do. If I can't disappear, I can at least look like someone you think twice about bothering.

By the time I'm closing in on the office, all the pep I left my apartment with has fully evaporated. I need Blink-182 and Sum 41 screaming in my ears — full-volume pop-punk bullying — just to keep my head from dropping clean off my neck.

You idiot. This is nothing. Get it together. People don't care. No one's thinking about you that hard. This is a stroll through daisies compared to Andy's office of horrors. Go to work. Do your work. Don't make eye contact. Don't unravel. That's it.

Fueled by my harshest bullies, I storm up the stairs and through reception, slam my bags on my desk, and intentionally steal Nick's attention from his screen. Out of breath but now fully awake, I stare at him, fully expecting a standing ovation for my silent victory.

And as if we're the first non-twins to share telepathy, he slowly pulls back his chair, gives me a nod, and starts a slow, sarcastic clap. I desperately need that.

"Someone looks like they had a good night's sleep," he smirks.

"Four aspirins," I say, sighing with frustration. "I have no idea how I got so drunk last night."

"I do, you insisted on getting your Christmas bonus in liquid form—four months early. Did you make it home okay?" He giggles like he did nothing to stop the trainwreck speeding out of the station.

I can't say much. Nick's not my parent—more like my older sibling who knows there's no stopping me once I'm headed somewhere. Still, my kidneys twitch nervously, as I might start to think he's not the only one who noticed.

"Oh yeah, I think so. I vaguely remember getting out of a cab. Usually a good sign," I laugh nervously.

In hopes of changing the subject and avoid future disasters, I go,

"Oh, by the way, can you please break up with the Swedes? Looks like you've got two new best friends, but I'm begging you—let's not,"

He grins then teasingly says "Is this about your martial arts performance?"

"Martial ar—stop it. Please, let's just not, okay?" I say, actually meaning it.

I stare at him as if to force him for a confirmation, but he just checks his watch in search of how to conveniently dodge the topic and go,

"I think we're gonna be late, we gotta go!"

"Nick, no we're not! Please! Say you'll stop!" I yell way too loud after him.

He's halfway down the hallway before I get another word in. Our office is basically an old mansion—or what used to be one—owned by some rich, probably white, dude back in the day. The offices are in what I think were once lavish bedrooms, all with open doors facing the hallway. There are about fifty people here at all times, and everyone hears everything in this echo chamber.

If it weren't for that, I'd have screamed at Nick from the rooftops by now.

I walk in to find Terry on the podium, ready for his rambling welcome speech, acknowledging my presence with eyes telling me I should sit the fuck down. Terry's a genuinely nice guy—just not at work. Andy, Terry's right-hand man, definitely picked up a few 'quirks' from his mentor.

I rush to Nick's side, the same spot as yesterday, scanning for the Swedes' hideout. No sign so far. Small victories.

Terry never prepares his speeches. They go on and on, like he just keeps talking until he feels he's said enough—whatever that means. I lean back, nestle into my chair, hoping to drift off after about 20 minutes.

I make myself comfortable, tilt slightly right so I can pretend this chair is my bed in upright form. Haven't even closed my eyes when my personal nightmare unfolds in real time.

Same bench as me, over the stairway, lurking in plain sight.

My desperate plan to stay under the radar? Obliterated. I barely glance his way before forcing my eyes back to Terry. But August's energy hits me like nuclear radiation—impossible to ignore.

I have to look properly. Not sure if it's some magnetic pull or a newfound love of masochism.

I look, and he's completely still. Eyes locked on me. My eyes. No flinching, no blinking. Just pure, unblinking intensity.

I try to thaw his expression with a share-food-appropriate smile—our awkward morning greeting.

Nothing.

Just an icy chill crawling down my spine.

Like a deer caught in headlights, I'm pinned in place by his eyes. His serious expression is set in stone—until he just barely tilts his head, like some real-life psycho slowly coming to life in the most terrifying way possible.

He keeps staring at me like I owe him money, and if I don't pay up, he's ready to crush my arms. That slight head tilt? I'm pretty sure he's imagining exactly how he'd do it. Then a small smile creeps in as he clenches his jaw—like he's savoring every crack, snap, and crunch my poor bones would make.

And the worst part? He's beautiful. Unreasonably, unfairly beautiful. Movie-villain beautiful. A face sculpted from symmetry and violence. High cheekbones, sharp jaw, lashes so long they should be illegal, and a mouth built to ruin someone's week. It's the kind of beauty that makes you look twice, then immediately regret it.

My body scrambles for self-preservation; I barely pull away from his death glare. My shoulders curl inwards, trying to shrink into the floor—or better yet, disappear entirely. I close my eyes to drown out Terry's endless babble and hug my arms tight, silently bargaining that maybe, just maybe, I traded my limbs for August's bruised shin.

I don't retain a single word of the day's lectures. Not one. I do, however, retain every dagger-eyed look Nick shoots me across the room. His silent what the hell happened? glares follow me everywhere. Luckily, today's lectures don't include group work, human interaction, or anything requiring more brain power than blinking.

I keep my head down all day. Nosy Nick. August "You'll Die Screaming" Hitchcock. That's it. No one else gets eye contact. I am not emotionally equipped.

Even at lunch, I pull off full social evasion. Two empty seats: one next to August, one next to the Spanish robot. I sit next to the robot. Charades are humiliating, sure. But they're a hell of a lot safer than sitting next to someone who looks like he'd snap my neck between sips of water.

The robot turns out to be called Miguel—and surprisingly sweet. He speaks more English than I thought, but still actually doesn't. He does, however, grins like it's his full-time job. Every throwaway joke I mumble gets a laugh—big, genuine, probably totally confused laughter. I'm almost certain he has no idea what I'm saying. I know I have no idea what he's saying. It's kind of perfect.

We make it through the day, barely. Most of the "talents" are buzzing for tonight's cultural exchange. Nick and I planned it. Sort of. We were assigned the event a week ago—on top of an already Everest-sized workload. We gave it ten minutes of discussion, five minutes of effort, and prayed for charisma to carry the rest.

The theme? Alcohol. Because, if we're being honest, that is Danish culture. Drinking like it's a competitive sport. Danes will drink you under the table, then insult your grandmother and bike home in a blizzard.

We nailed the drinking part. The biking part... not so much. My biking career ended the night my brother claimed I tried to run him over on our way home from a night out. He retells it like it was a near-death experience. His, not mine.

My family staged a quiet intervention and exiled me from two-wheeled transport. It's fine. Exercise and I are in a healthy "you stay in your lane, I'll stay in mine" situation. Especially now that I make cab money.

The immersion into Danish culture starts in a courtyard one over from ours. Our first stop is Street Food—a glorified bar disguised as a dinner venue. Every item on the menu is a drink pretending to be a meal. Taco Blanc. Churro'donnay. Brew-ritos. Hop Dogs. All items are purposely designed to disguise the receipts delivered to the company's accountants as dinners, and not benders.

Afterwards, we booked a table at Beef—a ludicrously overpriced steakhouse that doubles as a meat museum and triples as a parody of fine dining. We didn't pick it for the food, but because it was on theme. Denmark runs on alcohol, and Beef fully commits—bourbon-glazed cuts, vodka-laced sauces, cocktails served with a side of cholesterol. The place practically sweats booze.

As the only native Dane, I knew exactly what we would be walking into. Beef is the kind of place tourists dress up for, thinking it's fancy because the waiter has a man bun and the menu has footnotes. Nick and I had gone once, purely for the sport—mocking the stiff napkin-folding, the ten doneness preferences, the visible panic when someone reached for the wrong fork. It was a show and dinner, in that order.

Up until now, I realized I'd made the reservation again—this time with a group of international talents in tow, most of whom had never set foot in Denmark before. And that's when the slow, creeping horror set in: what if they thought this place was me? Like, my taste. My idea of Danish hospitality. My contribution to culture.

The worst part? I couldn't even blame them.

I made the fucking reservation.

Setting out from the office, Nick and I lock eyes, silently agreeing on the mission for the evening; Show the herd of "talents" a fucking great time.

It was one thing that Terry's formal parts of the session had been completely useless. Neither Nick nor I could stand that our part would be just as tame. We needed to try to salvage what was left of our image, especially as we had pretty much already set ourselves up for failure.

The courtyard is already buzzing; most tables brimming with cocktails, white wine in tin coolers stuffed with ice. Loads and loads of sunglasses hiding the sleep deprived eyes, pastel button downs, blazers and office-appropriate heels. Everyone's in that rare Friday-after-work haze where capitalism loosens its chokehold just enough to let people flirt with joy.

We managed to get through the crowd of tipsy working bees and settle in an area with a mix of bean bags and high tables. To make up for our lack of planning, we go full extrovert mode. Smiles, drink runs, forced charisma. It's exhausting. It's working.

The Belgians are easy—vodka soda turns them into a pack of squealing hyenas. The Spanish get a crash course in Danish craft beer, courtesy of me and my soul-sucking brewery client roster. They resist at first. But a little bit of liquid courage was all it takes for Miguel to actually speak English. He's just the wildcard I need to get them to surrender. Beers in hand, lounging and smoking like extras in a French film—I mark them as handled.

Then I catch Nick out of the corner of my eye. He's casually gliding toward the Dutch, that smug bastard. I know that look. He's already claimed them. Which means—

I get the Swedes.

Of course I do.

I hesitate. The hedgehog will be fine—he's all kegs and shots in rainbow-colours. But August? August looks like he's never had fun in his life. I start walking toward them like I'm marching to my own execution. Registering they have beer, and feel the need to come up with something more than a timid server offer. With each step, I shrink a little more. By the time I reach their table, I'm staring at the floor like it holds the answers to my survival.

"Anything I can get you?" I whisper, barely audible.

The silence stretches, until I hear August's clipped voice,

"How about ice for my shin, your bruised ego or just something to pull out the silver spoon up my ass?"

My eyes whip up, and meet an unimpressed smug expression from him. He's just holding a beer in his hand, elegant fingers wrapped around the bottle like he's judging it. Or planning to use it as a weapon.

I manage a few clumsy "uhm"s and "but"s before I finally form a sentence.
"Sorry, what?" I ask, like I just heard a ghost mutter it behind me.

The hedgehog laughs—loudly. Like full-body, hands-flapping, squeaky-snort kind of laugh. It's so on brand it hurts. And true to his chaotic form, beer trickles from the corner of his grin and spills down his pristine white shirt. Still chuckling, he starts miming his way toward the bathroom to clean up, like we're all just part of his silent comedy routine.

I'm still blinking at the social smoke bomb he left behind when August quietly opens a beer and places it in front of me. Like he knows I need it. Like he knows why.
He leans back against the tall table with effortless arrogance and says, "Looks like you need this. Or did you have enough last night?"

The way he says it—dry, cool, almost bored—makes me bristle. He's provoking me. Like he knows something I don't. Like I'm just one big walking mess he's already figured out. I square my shoulders, meet his gaze, and mimic his unreadable expression.

"No, not at all. Totally normal night. Nothing crazy," I say.
In hindsight, maybe don't casually imply you drink like a Viking warlord. Not the flex I meant it to be.

"Oh, right. So every Thursday you just casually black out?" he replies, monotone. His eyes stay fixed on mine—watching, measuring, like he's just waiting for the story to write itself across my face.

"I mean... it's not like everything's crystal clear," I mumble, waving a vague hand. "But I wouldn't say blackout. Not really."

There's a pause. His lips twitch—just the ghost of a smirk—and I know I've walked straight into it.

"You really don't remember last night, do you?"
I try to form a reply, but he's already continuing.

"You obviously forgot you told me I was born with a silver spoon up my ass. And judging by the way you're squirming, I'd say everything after that is gone too."

His tone dips a notch—dry, knowing, slightly amused. A little mean. He tilts his head slightly, studying me. And even though his mouth isn't smiling, something about his eyes is. Focused. Too focused.

I open my mouth. Close it. The memory reel is blank, but I fucking new my kidneys where on to something.
Do I confess or fake it?
He takes a slow sip from his beer. His lips—Jesus, his lips—curve just enough to make me look too long.
Focus, you idiot.

"I remember getting into a cab," I offer. "So... it couldn't have been that bad."

His brow lifts, like he's disappointed in my defense. "Not that bad?"

And there it is: the dread. That specific internal shiver I know too well. I'm about to be held accountable by the one person I absolutely don't want to have witnessed anything—August "I Eat Souls For Lunch" Hitchcock.

"You went out to smoke. Took a while. I came to check on you. And I got an earful," he says, calmly, like he's reading a weather report. "Apparently, I'm arrogant, a know-it-all, a pompous jerk. Oh— I'm all jawline, no soul. Like a Scandinavian Bond villain who ghosted his own conscience" Direct quote. Very insightful considering we'd barely spoken."

He takes another sip, slow and precise. Watching me like he's enjoying the memory just a little too much.

I wince.

Honestly? I'm not even that surprised. This is what I do.
First: pedestal.
Then: push.

It usually happens internally. I don't usually say it out loud.
Apparently, last night I did.

I've watched enough courtroom dramas to know when I've lost the case. Time to settle. Apologize. Grovel, even.

"That sounds... horrifying. For you," I say. "And I'm truly sorry. On her behalf."

He raises a brow. I don't give him time to really object.

"I promise you won't have to deal with her again. You'll be working with your Danish colleague from here on out—one who, despite appearances, is actually decent at her job. If you'd be so gracious as to dismiss this incident as a footnote, I promise a much smoother collaboration moving forward."

I finish with the corporate tone I usually reserve for high-stakes clients and gently extend my hand, diplomatic and slightly trembling.

He stares at it. Then at me. His expression doesn't change, but something flickers behind his eyes—surprise? amusement? confusion?

Then—finally—he scoffs, reaches out, and shakes it. His grip is warm and firm. His thumb brushes against my hand just a second longer than it needs to.

A grin flickers. Quick. Genuine. Definitely amused.

Victory. Truce. My limbs are safe.

Just as I breathe out, the hedgehog returns from the bathroom, wiping his hands on his still-wet shirt. "You will not believe it — it's like the Nose Olympics in there," he blurts, eyes wide. "Like. Nose. Olympics."

It's not my first bathroom drug witness report. In any other universe I might give him my recommendations, or Nick's contact. My better judgement refrains me from anything but nod in solidarity.

The rest of the evening unfurls in a haze of golden-hour sun, too-sweet drinks, and slowly dissolving social anxiety.

I find myself surprisingly at ease. I even bum a hand-rolled cigarette from one of the Spanish guys and manage to hold a semi-sane conversation with Ms. Shriek—the Belgian girl – Clara. Turns out she's running a marathon and hates it. We bond instantly.

The Dutch and Swedish delegations have pushed their tables together and are sharing drinks like long-lost cousins. It's giving carnival energy. Everything feels slightly off-kilter in a fun way. Like summer camp for overworked adults.

And every now and then—mid-sip, mid-laugh—I glance over at August.

And he's already looking at me.

***

It should only have taken us a couple of minutes to reach the restaurant. I'm the first one to arrive, and it's been twenty minutes since we left the courtyard.

I am already painfully aware of the burden we are going to be, and try to teleport apologies in advance to the kind personnel I'm greeted by. As more of the talents enter, I nod as I confirm that they are in fact, with me. The waiters and I seem equally aware that the "talents" have embraced the theme for tonight a little too wholeheartedly.

Thank god - well, Terry - for our expense account policy allowing for generous tipping.

As Nick - the designated tail end of the group - meets me in the door, we share relieved expressions. I feel like we need to be awarded some deputy badge - passing as full blown rangers at this point.

Nick and I snag the last two seats at the far end of the long table. My face lights up in surprise when I realize August's on my left. It must be some kind of cosmic glitch. For a second, I wonder if this is the universe throwing me a bone — maybe a chance to redeem myself. Either way, I should press myself on mute. Not knowing him is still the safest option altogether.

I try to look away, find a safe distraction, but instead land on two nearby tables crawling with exactly the type of people I hate — the overly cologned, loudly entitled, medium-rare martyrs. One of them, in mint-green cashmere, is already well past the point of drunk. He's slurring his words and waving his steak knife around like he's narrating a TED Talk no one asked for. Then, as if on cue, he snaps at a young waitress balancing a tray of full wine glasses. She flinches — visibly. He doesn't notice. Or worse, doesn't care.

I clench my jaw, fingers twitching around the stem of my glass. The fantasy comes fast and vivid: me, stealthily swapping his dry-aged ribeye with the shards from one of the wine glasses. Nick catches the whole thing. I glance at him, and he gives me the tiniest of nods. A twin's silent blessing. Go forth. Raise hell.

"What are you two plotting?" August's voice slides in, soft but pointed. He must have caught the look between us.

"World domination," I say, barely moving my lips.

"Hmm." I hear the smile before I see it. "You two look dangerous."

"Just... appreciating the local wildlife." I offer with a shrug, tipping my glass toward the pastel predator still attempting to seduce a bottle of Amarone with his credit card.

Just then, the man lets out an off-key, wine-soaked rendition of La Vie en Rose — no warning, no dignity. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

"Ah," August says, following my gaze. "Dinner and a show."

"And," I add, raising my glass like I'm toasting a trainwreck, "perfectly on theme."

He lets out a low laugh — warm, effortless. It settles under my skin in the worst-best way.

I hate this place. It's pretentious, overpriced, and full of people who think 'pairing' means power and Pinot. But right now, with August quietly amused beside me and my own wine glass dangerously full, I start to worry I might actually be enjoying myself.

Which is a problem.

Because I'm not supposed to like him — only his face - not the easy, grounded, infuriating person he appears to be. He's not trying to impress anyone. He's not posturing. He's just... here. Present. Kind.

And I don't know how to handle that.

I glance sideways. He's looking at me — not overtly, not intensely — just with the kind of curiosity that makes you feel seen. Like he's already figured out I'm two seconds from bolting or self-sabotaging or both. But he doesn't say a word.

Which somehow makes it worse.

I take a long sip of wine to cover the fact that my pulse has completely betrayed me.

Someone down the table raises their glass for a toast — something generic about teamwork and ambition. I raise mine too, but the only thing I'm drinking to right now is the fragile hope that our truce holds — especially if it means I get to hear his laugh just one more time.

Nick and I had already selected the same red wine for all — which, of course, means the French had insisted on the one he wanted. I didn't argue. He has strong opinions and impeccable taste. I take a sip and nod in his direction — he really does know how to pick them.

His smug smile tells me he knows it too.

I glance around the table, studying the "talents" — gauging their first impressions of the place. The restaurant is all moody lighting, crisp linens, and menus printed on paper so thick it might've been handcrafted by blindfolded monks in a Swiss monastery.

A part of me tightens, anticipating the cringe of overconfidence — someone mispronouncing Entrecôte or pointing too aggressively at the waitstaff. I spot another man in pastel a few tables over snapping for attention, loud and entitled like he thinks the price of his wine buys him the right to be a walking cliché.

Before I can roll my eyes, I notice one of the Dutch guys across from me already watching him — brow lifted, mouth curled into the subtlest smirk. Our eyes meet, and just like that, we're aligned. Silent, petty judgment: a universal language.

I look around again, watching the rest of the group with fresh eyes. They don't stick out — not in the wrong ways, at least. If anything, they seem perfectly at ease. There's a quiet, shared understanding here, a kind of inside joke. They get the irony. The performance. The absurdity of coming to a place like this on someone else's dime and playing along just enough to enjoy it. And most of all, they don't ruin the illusion by taking themselves too seriously.

I catch a glimpse of the menu in someone's hands, see the flicker of calculation behind a polite smile. These are people who know exactly how to bankrupt a company card while appearing professional — and I couldn't be prouder.

The waitress arrives with more wine. Glasses are filled again, toasts are raised. No one gets rowdy, no one breaks the spell. For the first time in days, I let myself exhale. The pressure loosens, bit by bit. I don't have to babysit. I don't have to steer. I just... exist.

When it's time to order, I don't default to safe or frugal. Tonight, I go all in.

"I'll have the Wagyu," I say, as casually as I can manage.

A beat passes, then the rest follow suit — Wagyu, across the board.

August turns to me. "Had it before?"

"No," I admit. "But I see it as a discretionary bonus."

"That's the only reason? You just picked the most expensive thing?"

Nick swirls his glass like a smug aunt. "Last night was a Christmas bonus. Tonight's New Year's."

I shoot him a look. "Careful. HR's watching."

He laughs, and I sip my wine like I most certainly didn't black out yesterday.

August says nothing, but I catch the edge of a smile.

"No," I say, more defensively than I mean to. "I actually want to try it, the Wagyu, I mean"

He smiles — not mocking, just... amused. He's watching me too closely, and I already feel the heat climbing up the back of my neck.

"Wine?" he asks.

"Stat." I tap the inside of my elbow, like I'm begging for an IV. I facepalm myself internally. Nick can't hold back a soft laugh - he knows me, and knows I'm 100% nervous brain mush.

August laughs too. "Relax. You'll hurt yourself."

"It's Friday," I mutter, reaching for my glass. "It's basically just grapes. And, on theme, of course."

"Oh, you casually black out on Fridays too?" His tone is playful, teasing, but not cruel. Like he's giving me space to be chaotic without judging me for it.

"You?"

"I never black out."

Of course he doesn't.

I sip the wine to keep from saying something ridiculous. But his attention has weight, and it's making me a little dizzy.

He nods toward my glass. "So, Wagyu and wine like blood transfusion. Big night."

"I'm committed to restaurant one-nighters," I reply. "This is my latest Roman Empire."

I feel embarrassed on my behalf, and search for help from Nick. As I meet his eyes, he's teary from trying to hold in another laugh. When Nick and I go out for dinner and a show, I sometimes worry that I'm the real freak show. Today, I would agree with him.

The plates arrive just then — sizzling, glossy with rendered fat, fragrant enough to silence most of the table. For a moment, the clatter dies down, replaced with reverent awe. Thankfully.

And maybe it's the lighting, or the wine, or the way August's knee just barely brushes mine under the table — but he looks at me then, just locking his eyes on mine as a relaxed smile forms on his lips.

I nearly say something unhinged. Well, more unhinged than I already have. I bite my tongue so hard I'm surprised there's no blood mingling with the Wagyu.

"This is the best fucking steak I've ever had!" the hedgehog blurts, mid-chew, snapping the tension. We all laugh - me out of gratitude for the break.

"I could make love to it every day of my life," he groans. Gross — if he weren't such an adorably clueless virgin.

August raises an eyebrow, agrees, "Bold statement. Wagyu is love for sure. You don't just flirt with it — you marry it."

I scoff, unable to hide the edge in my voice. "Sure. Because nothing says love like everyday-routine. Have it too often and it turns into toothpaste. Predictable, boring toothpaste."

Nick, swirling his wine like some smug little sommelier of emotional debris, looks up with a smirk. "Some wild animals just aren't meant to be domesticated."

I shoot him a pointed look, correct him, "Selective freedom, monsieur."

He leans in, mock-whispering to August. "She says monogamy's for penguins."

"I never said that," I protest, though my cheeks heat.

"Yes, you did," Nick chimes in, clearly enjoying this way too much. "At Sascha's. Whiskey in each hand."

He turns to August, deadpan. "She climbed onto her throne — the bar — and declared monogamy unnatural, recruiting disciples and free drinks"

"I did not—" I start.

Nick smirks. "You left with your biggest fan - the bartender?"

I open my mouth — then freeze.

Right.

That did happen.

I close it again.

The hedgehog laughs—clearly this bit of the conversation speaks to him.

August clears his throat, and I share his silent plea to move on. His gaze flicks between us, amusement dancing in his eyes.
"And yet," he says, "you called this your Roman Empire?"

"Exactly," I say, playing it cool, voice light but firm. "Restaurant one-nighters. No regrets. On to the next conquest."

The hedgehog snorts, raising his glass. "Sounds like she'll always treasure the fond memories of Wagyu."

Nick grins, raising his own glass in agreement. "Ah, the fleeting romance of the perfect steak. Brief, intense, unforgettable — and then, poof. Gone."

I roll my eyes, but the corners of my mouth twitch. "Better to have a thousand of those, than commit to only having minced beef for the rest of my life."

August smiles, swirling his wine with deliberate calm. "Still. Some dishes — like Wagyu — are worth coming back to."

The words land with an almost casual weight, like a dare. I almost miss it.

Nick leans back, grinning. "Careful, Gus. You're gonna make her break out in hives."

I wave him off. "I've got antihistamines — and a full glass of wine. One of those's bound to work."

The hedgehog squints at me like I'm speaking an alien language.

"Half the thrill is the rarity, right?" I say. "If you have it all the time, you stop tasting it. It stops meaning anything."

August's eyes narrow just a little. "I just think... commitment offers something more. Stability. Depth. The kind of flavor that only develops over time."

I meet his gaze, steady. "Or maybe it's just settling. Giving up on the chase."

He smiles, amused, challenging. "So, you're a realist."

"Exactly," I reply, though there's a challenge in my tone.

He cocks his head. "Sounds more like a pessimist."

"Spoken like a true, blissfully ignorant optimist."

He laughs — real, easy, and warm. I feel it curl into my spine like a spark.

I lean back in my chair, fork poised. "You're going to ruin it for yourself."

"I'd risk it," he says, with a smirk that screams superiority complex and great cheekbones.

It's maddening. And stupidly attractive.

The plates are being cleared, but the energy hasn't left. He crosses his arms, leaning back. So do I. It feels like we are locked in a passive-aggressive staring match, but I can't help but use it as a perfectly valid excuse to look straight at him.

His eyes—sharp and mischievous, flickering between challenge and something almost softer. They're not just looking at me—they're trying to read me, assess me, figure me out. It makes me want to shy away, not risking that he might actually succeed.

Then, in what has to be the most infuriating move ever, he takes a slow sip of wine, and a single drop clings to his bottom lip. Without missing a beat, he licks it off—slow, deliberate, like he knows exactly how much that little gesture messes with my head.

I want to look away, but I can't.

My brain is screaming - then it hits me - he's not flirting. He's teasing me, pushing buttons, daring me to crack. Maybe he just likes watching me squirm. Maybe this is his way of telling me I'm not done paying off my debt?

Either way, it's infuriating. And ridiculously, painfully tempting.

The noise from the rest of the group fades into background static. It's just us in this ridiculous staring contest—two stubborn idiots refusing to blink first. It's childish, it's absurd... and somehow, it's electric.

I'm caught somewhere between wanting to laugh at how dumb this is and genuinely wondering if I've just made prolonged eye contact with a man for so long I've entered a fugue state.

His eyes crinkle, just a little— crescent moons —and I know he's enjoying this. Worse, I think he knows I'm enjoying it too. A flicker of something softer flashes across his face, like he's about to say something real—then he leans back, smirking, and the spell resets. He's daring me to break first.

I bite back a breath, trying to hold my ground.

"Are you two about to arm wrestle or make out?" Nick asks, not even glancing up from his wine.

It shatters the spell. We break eye contact like guilty schoolkids, laughter bursting out of both of us — louder than it should be. We clink glasses, pretending it's casual, I pretend I'm not seconds away from combusting. Around us, the table chat flows, engaging in it seems to put the tension at ease. For now.

After a beat, I slip outside. Just me, the night, and nicotine — my favorite kind of therapy. It's colder now, sharp and quiet. For the first time in two days, I feel calm. Steady. The storm inside me has hushed into something still. Focused, but not quite finished.

There's one thing left to do. One final indulgence

Inside that restaurant, someone's about to wear their entitlement - in wine.

I've been choosing my target all evening. There are options. So many options. The loud crypto guy by the bar, the man who has physically colonized half the aisle with his elbows, his watch, and his inflated sense of self-worth. The overcompensating finance bro near the decorative fireplace.

But the true winner, by a landslide, is the human embodiment of a Wall Street spreadsheet: full manspread, all cufflinks and cologne and audible stock tips — that is, when he isn't busy snapping at the waiter every other second. A man so self-satisfied he probably charges rent to his own ego.

I return to the restaurant with determination and calm precision in my step.

He's still there, leaning back like he owns the oxygen. He doesn't see me coming.

I pivot slightly, let my elbow "slip"—and his glass tips with theatrical grace. Half a pour of bold red sails down his chest, soaking straight into the linen smugness of his shirt.

He gasps like someone just shot him—except it's worse when he stands and the wine stains spread like a full-on period accident.

"Oh no," I say, hand to my mouth, eyes wide. "I'm so sorry."

The waitress rushes over—her first approach that isn't triggered by a snap of fingers. Young, armed with napkins and barely concealed panic. But then she looks at me—really looks—and something clicks. She knows exactly what just happened.

I offer her the subtlest nod. Her mouth twitches. Not a smile — not quite — but a flicker of sisterhood. The silent communion of two women who've had enough tonight.

The man sputters curses and storms off toward the bathroom, muttering something about dry cleaning and emotional damage.

I float back to the table, lighter now. Satisfied.

August's head turns immediately. Concern flashes across his face. "Are you okay?" he asks. "Did something happen?"

Before I can open my mouth, Nick cuts in — voice bone-dry, the picture of innocent mischief.

"Oh, something happened," he says. "She just personally ended that man's night. It was beautiful."

August blinks, confused. I lift my wine glass in faux modesty.

"Accidents happen," I say.

Nick snorts. "You are the accident."

And yet — August's watching me with something new behind his eyes. Not judgment. Not suspicion.

Admiration?

Maybe even something worse: curiosity.

My cheeks heat up, and I can't tell if it's the wine, the sweet taste of revenge, or the way he's still staring—like I'm some complicated, irresistible puzzle he's dying to solve.

We say nothing. But the spark between us flickers back to life—warmer, quieter, and way more dangerous than before.

Around us, laughter bounces off the walls. Glasses clink. The night buzzes with that delicious, "anything could happen" kind of energy.

And still, that look.

I pretend I'm over it.

He pretends he's not dying to call my bluff.

Nick, across the table, throws me a grin that screams, You're screwed.

I raise my glass. Cheers to that.

***

As the red wine bottles finally run dry, I'm limping toward the finish line of this two-day social marathon. The talents want to roam the city solo until Sunday - and I wished them the best of luck with their endeavors. I could offer to be their tour guide, but that would require my last two percent of energy. I knew I already lost them somewhere between the second or third bottle of red, and the awkward group selfie.

Forty-eight hours trapped in a bubble of forced smiles and half-hearted laughter. Paid to perform like joy is a mandatory skill on my résumé. August. Just everything about him. I need to detach completely from the tension. I'm desperate to pop this bubble, retreat to my natural habitat, and binge anything else until further notice.

Half the group heads to a bar I recommended — purposely located in the opposite direction of my apartment. I've pre-booked a cab, trying to stage the world's most unconvincing Houdini act. No hugs, no lingering goodbyes — just a quick wave and a vanishing act. Nick's off biking home like he's afraid his imagined immigration officer is watching his every move.

Just as I slam the taxi door, the universe throws a wrench in the plan. August appears, blocking my grib to close the door, like some mildly charming roadblock. "I can drop you off on the way. Not that you'd remember — my hotel's on your route."

Perfect. Just what I needed. Stuck in whatever this is longer.

I probably look surprised, but he doesn't wait for my permission and gets in. I want to tell him to screw the practicalities — the company's paying — and that I need a solid seven-to-ten-business-day emotional time-out. Just to recover from the tension that's now casually buckled into the seat beside me.

That same intensity is why I messaged Felix earlier tonight to confirm his visit. I need a distraction. Badly.

I keep quiet in the taxi, mostly to avoid being tempted by his face. I stare out the window like it owes me money, trying to hold it together for the full fifteen minutes. But about halfway through, he cracks.

"Getting déjà vu? Is Thursday night's memory creeping back?" His voice is low, almost smug.

I try to shut it down. "No, not really. You were probably right — it was more of a blackout than anything."

He hums, far too pleased. "So you lied. About not blacking out. And about remembering the taxi home?"

"Yeah, maybe. It's more the memory of getting out of the cab that sticks." I say it lightly, hoping it ends there.

Mercifully, my building appears. I rush out a string of words before I can think better of it. "Like I said, I'm sorry about everything. You won't see this from me again. See you in Amsterdam. Get home safe."

I don't wait for a reply. I'm out the door like it's on fire.

Once inside my building's small courtyard, I light a cigarette with trembling hands. The night air hits my face. Cold. Quiet. Perfect. My back's turned to the cab. I refuse to wave. Waving after a goodbye always feels like begging for an encore no one asked for.

"Just one last thing I gotta check—when you said I had the most perfect lips you've ever seen... you weren't joking, right? Because honestly, that sounds a little insane. And exactly like something I'd expect by now."

I choke on my cigarette mid-drag. "What?!"

He's already there — fast, unfairly fast — gently patting my back and tossing my cigarette aside like I'm too irresponsible to hold fire. He's not wrong.

I catch my breath, lungs rebooting one wheeze at a time. "Jesus. I'm fine. Really. Mostly."

He steps closer, eyes scanning me, voice low again. "Fine... or lying?"

I open my mouth to deflect — sarcasm locked and loaded — but nothing comes out. My brain picks this moment to go offline. And apparently, when that happens, my mouth defaults to truth.

"I'm okay," I finally say. "And no... that part wasn't a lie."

My eyes stay glued to the ground. But the weight of silence makes me glance up — and there it is. The almost-smile. The soft warmth. That thing he does with his eyes that makes it feel like the whole city's asleep except for us.

"So you meant it," he says, quiet but steady. "The part about my lips."

My heart thuds once. Loud. Unhelpful.

I nod, barely. "I wasn't supposed to say it out loud."

"But you did."

"I won't again."

He steps in — close enough that I'm sure he's not just planning to show me them up close.

Then—"Hey, guys! What'd I miss?"

Felix.

I jump like I've been caught doing something illegal. August doesn't move, but something in his face shifts — a tiny retreat behind the eyes.

Felix grins, completely unaware. "Didn't know we were adding a third tonight."

I can't tell if he interrupted or rescued me. But whatever was about to happen — whatever I might have let happen — it's gone.

For now.