"Haunted by Ghosts, Stiff from the Cold, and Pulled under by the Fuckery of Making a Living"

"What the fuck is this?" I jump in my seat, as Andy's roar takes up the whole of my office.

It's currently 22:31 on a Saturday evening. I was summoned by Satan's spawn Friday 15:21, telling me we would be here all weekend. When I dared to ask why we needed to do it on the weekend - as it's not due to be presented the coming Friday - he scoffed and dryly said "When have you ever done anything right on the first try?"

So here I am, working on a presentation about The Scandinavian drinking habits - consumer trends. The irony is not wasted on me - working on drinking habits - whilst strictly refraining from exercising my own. If this situation was the first, I might find it funny, but it's so often that I sometimes suspect he might be doubling as an AA sponsor.

I'm here because I choose to work on the biggest client in our office. They are one of the world's biggest breweries, and their headquarters are in Copenhagen. We do their market research in all countries. Even though most of my colleagues in the Danish office have worked on this client, I'm Andy's right hand in handling them. I'm proud of that actually, plus the brewery-angle makes it a lot easier to explain what I do to my family.

I don't know exactly why he picked me, all he ever does is humiliate me or correct me - usually both at the same time. Maybe because the sadist has seen, everyone but me, cry? Because I never say no? Because he knows that what I lack I make up for in woman hours?

My money's on the money. He knows I want the salary of a senior executive, and he's my golden ticket. Well, my only ticket. Andy's Terry's right hand, which means a word from him can make or break my, already thin, promotion prospects.

I look at him as he loudly waves the bundle of papers in the air. From the rage in his eyes, it seems like the presentation had somehow personally assaulted him. He's holding the 23rd version of the presentation, at 126 slides - and counting.

"Right, what is it that you wa-..." I say, restrained to the point I might pull a muscle.

"Make it a story. People need to be engaged, to feel the message" he says, as it's the first time he's breaking this to me.

My role is to do the data, the graphs, the slides, the layout and of course, the storyline. He sees his role as to correct everything.

"Okay, thank you. Can you let me know what you think the main message.. is? I think there are many points we should include" I say, most definitely pulling a muscle trying to keep my frustration in.

"I'm not going to give you the answer to everything. It's literally your job to find out" He answered.

I don't know if he's honest, or that he simply doesn't know. Before I can protest he's gone.

***

I blink a few times, as if the person in front of me is part of my dream. I can barely look straight and have no clue what the Swedish airport security lady is asking me to remove.

The sound from the metal detector at the security checkpoint had worked like an alarm, attempting to wake me from my drowsiness.

She points down, and I remove my boots with great difficulty, desperately hoping that my guess is correct. As I pass through the checkpoint again, I see Andy already got through. His disapproval of my choice in footwear written all over his face.

I yawn all the while I pick up my boots, carry-on, jacket. I pull on my knee high leather boots, the physical exercise seems to jumpstart my brain.

Right. I'm in Stockholm. It's Wednesday then. New client tomorrow. Presentation friday, got it.

As I reach Andy past the security check, it's clear that he's pissed. He looked like he just had to sit through a 3-hour long documentary on the teletubbies.

"Have you remembered to book a car?" He asks with clear distrust in my ability to carry out the simplest of tasks.

I can't actually remember if I did. I look at my phone for potential clues. Text from Daniel, location and time. Thank fuck for that.

"Yes, we need to go to the orange pick up area, he'll be here in fifteen minutes, I'll head down and wait for it." I answer, mentally high-fiving my former self.

I have slept between two to four hours a night since Saturday. I spend all my waking hours in the office. I didn't even go home between Monday and Tuesday. It seemed pointless and Nick could bring me a set of fresh clothes. I've considered sobriety twenty one times. I've also considered becoming alcohol twenty one times. Verdict's still out.

***

There are very few pro's to the list 'Andy as a human being'. Right now, I'm unbelievably grateful for two of them. One, he doesn't fuck with shitty hotels. Two, he hates any work-dinners as much as me.

The combination of those are even more magical than separate. The spaghetti with meatballs, pepperoni pizza and tiramisu just tastes better devoured in a king size bed.

I look at how much is left of my episode - a rewatch of a Kdrama I love - to find I'd set a new record of sorts. My room service cart had been emptied in less than 34 minutes. Contrary to the energy surge I would have hoped to feel, I'm more tired than I was before.

I look at my phone and realize it's only 18:46 - which, even in a food-coma-state, is slightly too early to turn in. I scroll through my notifications to see if anything's interesting enough to fight my heavy eyelids.

I look at the missed calls, group chats and go directly to the voice memo from Felix, not even pretending that there were competing options.

"Hi baby, hope you're setting hell on fire. Have you killed Andy yet? Hope not, although I think you'll look sexy in cuffs. When are you back?"

I call him. No answer. I feel like it's my cue to call it a day. I know I'll be out in seconds, so I set my alarm for 22:00 - the responsible adult in me will never forgive me if I forget to take my meds.

***

I feel like a new person as I take a look at the after-version in the mirror. Surprising myself as to have somehow orchestrated and led an episode of extreme makeover.

My bones don't crack. My white crisp shirt somehow made the trip unwrinkled. My stockings are, so far, unripped. I remembered to pack a hairbrush. This is the best morning I ever had, was it not for knowing I'll see Andy's face at breakfast.

I enter the grand dining hall, and see the psycho's already up and at it. He's eating a croissant whilst scrolling his phone when I arrive. He looks peaceful, like he's actually enjoying life. It's creepy. It's more likely that he's watching a video of kittens being killed.

I glance around at the guests, politely smiling, as I'm somehow the embodiment of vitality. I mirror Andy's choice of breakfast, slightly afraid any choices will lessen his perception of me - if that's even possible.

Andy just nods as I sit down across from him. Of course he doesn't even dignify my presence with actual eye contact.

We eat in silence. I look around, take in the crowd, the paintings, the waiters - basically everything that isn't Andy. I like the people here, most of them tourists; they seem curious, genuinely excited for what the day might bring. I also notice a few of the women stealing glances at Andy. It kind of makes my insides turn, but then again, on the outside he is objectively attractive.

The first time I met Andy I actually thought he was kind of hot. He's only seven or eight years older than me, so young-ish. He works out, as to keep up with his athletic and healthy man-of-the-world-look. I know better now - he's just adhering to the principles in the American Psycho handbook. But still, those women are not wrong for undressing him with their eyes.

"Ugh" I say, as I also undressed him. It immediately sent a shiver down my spine. I shake my head, trying to burn the image of a sociopathic Ken doll from my brain.

"Can you at least try to act like you have it together?" Andy interrupts, eyes still glued to his screen. His voice is as mechanical as the speaker on train stations.

"Yep, sure thing. You got it." I say quietly, mentally rolling my eyes at myself.

My shame hangs in the air until Andy rattles my nervous system again,

"Ann-Karin will be here shortly. When we get there, I want you two to handle the marketing people. I'll take care of the heiress."

I know Ann-Karin - our colleague and the Swedish equivalent of Andy. She's twice my age but has the energy and face of a 19 year old. I know the face is powered by botox, and suspect the energy isn't natural either - it's giving pharmaceutical-grade enthusiasm.

Even though my former self micro-planned the shit out of these two days, this is the first time I'm hearing about a heiress joining. I always obsess over trips with Andy. I'm terrified of messing up generally, let alone when he and I are alone far from credible witnesses. This trip is on another level though. I'm crossing the border to August's territory, and I plan to do so in stealth-mode.

I ghosted August. Our last exchange was when he sent pictures of the email he sent to my CEO. One remarkable evaluation I might add.

I only checked the meeting invites to check for his presence. He hasn't been copied on any mails regarding the supermarket og brewery client.

"The heiress?" I dare to ask.

"Yes, her dad is the owner and current CEO. She's apparently on rotation in all departments before taking on the COO role. She's transferring to the marketing department in two months, and will have a final say in adding vendors for the expansion project."

I nod like it makes sense. I really don't. I hate entitlement, and now we have to cater to one piece of bratty overprivileged heiress.

***

A receptionist with a laminated smile guides us to a designated meeting room that smells faintly of over-filtered air and collective compromise. It's windowless, fluorescent-lit, and stuffy—the kind of place where ambition goes to nap. A lone ceiling tube blinks in the corner like it's auditioning for a strobe gig at Sascha's.

Come to think of it, the room does kind of resemble Sascha's. Just swap out the alcohol and music for stale coffee and powerpoints, and you've got yourself a sad, sober cousin. Even the fan kicks in with the same uneven rhythm as the club's bass system—if the DJ had severe burnout.

The resemblance should comfort me. Instead, it makes me feel like a knockoff version of myself. Like I'm cosplaying someone "put-together." I know what comes next: a client-friendly smile, high-energy nodding, feigned empathy. The kind of human warmth you bill by the hour.

While Ann-Katrin and I puzzle over the optimal seating strategy—read: flanking the highest titles—I can't help noticing the contrast to the building's exterior. The place is stunning. Towering stucco facades, immaculate stonework, pure Stockholm flex. The kind of building that says "legacy." The kind of interior that says, "forgot to renew the IKEA lease."

Andy is hunched over in the corner, fighting a prehistoric projector like it's a boss battle. The second the image finally loads, the ventilator kicks into overdrive like it's trying to escape. It's not helping.

Then they enter: Jan and Sally. Jan comes in like he thinks he's being filmed—barking confidence, handshake like he's crushing a lemon. Sally, his junior, is the one who'll actually use the insights, but you can already tell Jan's going to do all the talking.

Ann-Katrin and I take our places on either side of them, smiling like we mean it. Let the performance begin.

The meeting starts in classic fashion: small talk, strained smiles, and the kind of laughter that only lives in corporate habitats. I notice Andy's fidgeting—it's already 16 minutes past the scheduled start.

Jan clocks it too and gives the go-ahead with a decisive nod. "Let's get going, shall we?"

Ann-Katrin kills the lights. The blinking strobe in the corner gets its moment of fame. Andy launches into the deck with his usual ease, gliding through each slide like he's been doing this since the womb. He's good. Really good. This is why I wanted to learn from him. Why I feel like I never measure up. His charisma is infuriating—natural, clean, no smudges.

Then, ten minutes in—cue chaos.

The door bursts open with the grace of a fire drill. A woman strides in, full of heat and apology.

"Oh no, don't stop on my account! Just go ahead—I'll say a proper hello when the presentation's done," she says, flashing a toothpaste-ad smile that somehow doesn't touch her eyes.

Typical hot air. I clock the time again: sixteen minutes.

I turn my focus back to Andy, who hasn't missed a beat. Of course he hasn't.

The lights come on for questions and commentary. I blink a few times, adjusting. That's when I finally get a good look at the latecomer. The woman with the show-stealing entrance.

It's fucking Helena.

Of course it is.

The universe has been holding onto this particular humiliation like a fine wine. Aged ten years, uncorked precisely when I'm most exposed. I glance over at Andy—still glowing from his flawless delivery—and I suddenly want to crawl under the conference table and begin a new life as a forgotten USB drive.

Helena seems to clock me the exact same moment I clock her. Her expression lights up like we're in a romcom and this is the third act reconciliation. She actually gasps. Gasps.

"I can't believe it's you!"

She's already on her feet. I don't even get time to flinch before she's hugging me—warm, soft, and dangerously scented. I manage to hug her back, if you can call a full-body shutdown a hug. My arms hover somewhere around her back like they're waiting for instructions.

"Me neither," I say, or at least I think I do. It comes out like I'm mid-asthma attack and also underwater.

She pulls back, hands gripping my shoulders, taking me in like I'm some kind of priceless artifact she just remembered owning. Her grin widens.

"How are you? Look at us—exes reunited after ten years!"

And just like that, she drops the bomb. Right there. In the middle of a post-pitch debrief. Surrounded by coworkers and clients and a blinking ceiling tube that I'm now convinced is flickering in Morse code for RUN.

I can't breathe. Not because of the surprise—no, I'm used to emotional drive-bys. It's because Andy is over there being perfect. Projecting charisma. Radiating competence. And I've just become the subplot.

"Yes, look at us having a conversation I don't want to have," I say, before my brain has time to intervene.

Dead. Silence.

I clear my throat. "Sorry—I mean, of course—our colleagues. It's great to see you." A lie, presented like a gift no one asked for.

"How about we catch up some other time?" I offer, voice stretched thin from trying to sound like a functioning adult.

"Sure. Drinks tomorrow?" she says, breezy and beautiful and blindingly confident. "I'll get your number from Jan."

Jan, the human golden retriever, nods so eagerly I fear he might pull something.

Andy glances at me, still beaming, clearly unaware that the ground beneath my feet has just opened up and swallowed my spine.

I try to focus, try to reclaim my professionalism, but all I can hear is Helena's perfume and my own spiraling thoughts screaming, You absolute moron.

I came here to support a presentation, maybe learn something. Instead, I've time-traveled straight into a horror-comedy hybrid where my past, my inadequacy, and my most talented coworker are now doing a joint panel.

And somehow, I'm the opener.

***

Andy is the first to break the silence in the cab.

"You fucked the heiress?"

His voice is flat, not accusatory—but not exactly chill either. I stare out the window, unable to meet his eyes. Ann-Katrin hasn't said a word since we left the meeting room. No one has.

I run through a dozen useless replies in my head and land on the truth. "Yes." It comes out like an apology.

He pauses. I can't tell if he's pissed or impressed or quietly filing this away under 'unexpected leverage'.

"Is this going to be a problem?"

"No," I say quickly. I don't add Sir, but it's weirdly implied.

The cab ride is long. Silent. Heavy. Ann-Katrin's in the front seat like she's deliberately pretending we don't exist. I can feel her judgment vibrating off the headrest. I don't even blame her. Somehow, I've managed to be a burden and a liability, all in the same day.

All I can think about is the fallout. The Danish office. Terry. The pitch. The story making its way back in distorted whispers: Frederika tanked it. Frederika fucked the client. Frederika.

Ann-Katrin finally breaks character—turns back slightly to confirm the dinner reservation. I nod at the details, grateful for something normal, something I can execute without imploding.

The cab pulls over.

I take a breath, almost giddy at the idea of being free from Andy's oppressive silence. I'm halfway out the door before I register that we're not at the hotel.

The plaque says it all: iMarket Sweden.

My stomach drops. My feet don't move.

Andy's voice cuts through my confusion. "What is it with you?"

"I thought we were going to the hotel. And then meeting Ann-Katrin for dinner," I say, barely louder than a whisper.

His jaw tightens. He was not asking.

"I changed the plan," he says, clipped. "Thought we'd use the afternoon to connect with the Swedish team. Expand on cross-market synergies. Ann-Katrin updated the dinner res once she had the full headcount."

It sounds like logistics. I know better. This is Andy-speak for You should've thought of this, but didn't. Again.

I nod and move. What else can I do? Run? Maybe. But the getaway car's already pulled away, and I'm not that lucky.

My feet feel like bricks on the steps up to the first floor. Each one echoes like a countdown to the world's most awkward playdate. At the door, we pause by an unattended reception desk. I'm handed a temporary visitor's pass—valid for today and tomorrow. My hand twitches. I nearly say fat chance out loud, but manage to swallow it. Barely.

Ann-Katrin leads the way through what can only be described as a minimalist palace disguised as an office. It's all high ceilings and walls of glass. The place is bright—almost hostile in its aesthetic perfection. The kind of sterile beauty that dares you to smudge it. From where I'm walking, I can count maybe a handful of people scattered around clusters of desks. Every fourth workstation, if that. It's late afternoon, sure, but the silence screams we leave at four because we value joy. Unlike Copenhagen, where joy is a rumor HR denies knowing anything about.

I let myself admire the space for a second—just long enough to remember I'm still in a state of high alert. He's here. Somewhere. I don't know where, but I'm not about to get ambushed. I stick to Andy's shadow like a very anxious barnacle.

Our glamorous walking tour ends in the break room, which looks like something from a May spread in Scandinavian Architectural Digest: Power & Soft Lighting Edition. Andy heads straight for the fridge and grabs a bottle of water like it owes him money. I, being a human wreckage of the day, do what any woman cornered in a Nordic design dreamscape would do: I make a double espresso, down it like a shot, then immediately follow up with an iced Americano. Ann-Katrin chuckles. Andy rolls his eyes so hard I swear I hear cartilage shift.

Then I spot a tray of assorted mini candy bars and dive in without shame. I haven't earned dignity today.

That's when Andy leans against the countertop like a smug camp counselor and delivers the death blow: "Go play with your friends from the talent programme."

He even points—points—in the direction of two weary-looking individuals. My personal walk of shame begins.

Shoulders slumped, I shuffle toward the sad duo like a guest star in a teen drama who's too old to be cast. The closer I get, the younger they look. By the time I arrive, I'm convinced I've accidentally wandered into a gifted child's internship orientation.

We all stare at each other.

I sit in the nearest chair, mostly because collapsing to the floor felt like overkill. I offer my name, trying for friendly, maybe even breezy. They respond like I just walked into their bedroom uninvited. Stoic politeness. Deep unease. Minimal vowels.

So. This is going well.

***

"Freddiiieeee!" the Hedgehog sings from the doorway, loud enough to startle a few sleek Swedish bobbleheads out of their ergonomic chairs.

I turn, and there he is—coat still on, laptop bag dangling, grinning like he just walked into a sitcom. My whole body exhales. My spine reappears. I could cry. He's my emotional fire exit. My safety drill with good shoes. My favourite unexpected plot twist.

He waves me over like we've rehearsed this. No questions, no mercy. I'm up and moving before my brain catches up, abandoning the interns without a word. If they ask, I ascended to a higher plane. Enlightenment by Hedgehog.

I reach his side with the velocity of someone escaping a cult. Every fibre of me wants to throw my arms around him, carry his bag, or possibly propose.

"Merci, Monsieur," I murmur, already halfway into the desk chair he rolls out for me like he owns the joint. He even kicks a little footstool my way. I toss my boots up and recline like a war widow who just inherited the estate.

He bursts into laughter—unfiltered, full-body, almost musical. Still riding the high of witnessing me try to "connect" with Generation ZZZ.

"I cannot believe you actually tried to talk to them," he wheezes.

"I know," I groan. "I was polite. Made eye contact. The horror. They looked at me like I was a Jehovah's Witness with Excel sheets."

He shrugs, all gravitas. "You made the fatal mistake of saying hello. Obviously, you're a threat."

We laugh. Loud, lovely, embarrassing-in-Sweden laughter. It hits like a pressure valve snapping loose. For the first time all day, my shoulders stop wearing my ears as earrings.

He's already typing—clicking away, looking efficient. I just let myself sit in it, basking in this little desk oasis. A whole corner of Stockholm where I'm not the villain, the screwup, or the ex.

Eventually, my eyes wander. I need something—anything—to short-circuit the Helena footage playing on loop behind my eyelids.

But for now, just five more seconds of this chair, this calm, this Hedgehog. Then we re-enter the battlefield.

I take in the desk I'm at, next to the Hedgehog's.

There's a chipped mug covered in a big blue heart, stuffed with silly pens. The paint job is atrocious—clearly done by a child. At least one, then.

A gamer headset. Excessive, but sure.

Folders, neatly lined up, all shades of blue. Beautiful handwriting on the tags. The kind of obsessive tidiness that feels... comforting. Or a cry for help.

Two standing photo frames. One's an abstract riot of shapes—rounds and angles and color. Cubism, clearly. I can't place the artist, but it's fun. Playful chaos.

The other one? I know instantly. Woman Holding a Vase by Fernand Léger. Tucked away like a treasure at the end of the French wing in the National Gallery. Past the loud boys—Picasso, Matisse—it waits. A secret finale for the ones who don't give up early.

A masterpiece in blue, red, grey. Some say the woman is assembled from strength. Some say she's dissected to pieces.

I tap the Hedgehog's shoulder, nodding at the photos. "What's with the museum vibe? Ran out of family to frame?"

He laughs, pulling open a drawer. "I offered. He never asked."

He slides out another frame. Seven people in matching overalls, grinning like they've just won Eurovision. Even their buzzcuts match. A modern-day cult of joy.

"Wow. That's the happiest group of people I've ever seen. Did you take a vow of cheerfulness?"

He laughs again—but his voice drops a register. "Yeah, but... he doesn't really do photoes of family, girlfriends. Or... anyone. Just doesn't talk about his people. I probably shouldn't say anything, but—just don't mention the pictures, alright?"

I blink. Not what I expected from a desk critique. "Sure. I won't."

He seems relieved, nods once.

And then:

"Comfortable, are we?"

I jump in my seat—literally—as a hand jostles the back of my chair. My whole spine goes stiff.

That voice.

Playful, sharp-edged, tinged with amusement and something unmistakably European. It's the same voice that whispered in a pitch-black maintenance closet. And every nuance of it is still burned into my brain like a signature.

"August. Hi." My voice cracks like an adolescent. "Uhm. Good to—well, you look good."

Kill me now. I sound like a teenage fan who just bumped into a movie star in a supermarket. I want to staple my mouth shut.

He scoffs. One corner of his mouth turns up. That same smug half-smile. The kind that doesn't need words.

"Yeah. Likewise," he says flatly.

Then he glances at the Hedgehog. Not subtle. The way someone might glare at a man caught standing too close to a burning building.

I realize I am the building.

Hedgehog picks up on it instantly. He fumbles an excuse about a meeting and practically teleports away. Just a puff of polite retreat.

August looks down at the desk. His desk. The one I'm still very much occupying.

"Are we sharing now?" he asks. Calm, quiet, sharp as glass.

Shit.

"Oh. Right. Sorry—I'll move," I stammer, springing up like I triggered an ejector seat.

He sits without replying. Plugs in his laptop. Starts typing like I never existed.

I stand there, holding my bag like a deflated flotation device. Not sure if I should sit, run, or crawl under the foosball table and live there forever.

No eye contact. No invitation.

I take the desk behind him—out of his sight line. A coward's seat. I sit down quietly, like a ghost returning to haunt the wrong person. Out of sight, out of mind. Let's see if that still works.

I force myself to open the brewery presentation. Because if August can sit two feet away, glacial and efficient, I sure as hell can pretend I'm equally composed.

My cursor hovers. Slides flip by. My brain flips off.

I can't concentrate. Not even a little. He's cold. Not silent—icy. Like I said something unforgivable. I mean... I didn't say anything. I just didn't write. Or call. Or respond. For weeks.

So, yes - I just ghosted him. Although can it technically be ghosting if I'm here now? Fully visible. In his line of sight. At his desk.

Still—radio silence, followed by waltzing into his workspace like I'm a LinkedIn notification he never asked for. I'll accept the verdict: rude. Aggressively rude. But not malicious.

Not that it matters. I'm not up for the Humanitarian of the Year Award.

I try to focus. Brewery deck. Bullet points. Data. But instead of a pitch-worthy case study, my screen flashes with Helena's face. Her laughing, pixelated, stock-photo-level perfect. A floating meme of déjà vu.

She's everywhere. Not just today—2014 is suddenly everywhere. That version of me. That version of her. Stupid and soft and dangerous.

But it's 2015 that hits hardest. That year isn't blurry. It's sharp. Brutal. It still walks around with my name in its teeth. The year everything collapsed in slow motion. When I finally found a name for what was wrong with me. When I stopped pretending I could be someone's girlfriend and started pretending I was fine.

I blink too fast. Swallow down the noise.

The Hedgehog returns at some point during the spiral, holding a new coffee and the diplomatic confidence of someone who's decided the ceasefire is holding. I keep my eyes on my laptop. Still pretending to work. Still pretending to breathe normally.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Andy's unmistakable power-wave—his preferred method of summoning.

Time to leave.

I pack up like the foot soldier I am. Relieved by the idea of enduring a stiff dinner with Ann-Katrin and Andy. Relieved. Relieved.

That's how upside-down this day is: dinner with them feels like sanctuary. A controlled burn. Predictable awkwardness, performed under fluorescent lighting.

I almost laugh at the thought. Almost.

I'm zipping my bag when the Hedgehog sidesteps behind me and leans in.

"You going in Andy's cab, or want to come in ours?" he asks, low-voiced. Casual.

And just like that—great. Another decision I'm not remotely ready to make.

***

Ann-Katrin, Andy, and a gaggle of senior execs sit down at the "business end" of the table—sharp suits, sharp smiles, and even sharper elbows. August lands directly across from me. The Hedgehog, bless him, is parked at the far end. Judging by the dead-eyed stare he's wearing, he knows he's been sentenced to the same holding cell as me. Welcome to the Kids' Table: where hope and hierarchy go to die.

None of us enjoy the setup. It's obvious we've been placed here deliberately, like distractions that might embarrass the grown-ups if left unsupervised.

I know what I'm supposed to be doing. Laughing at boring jokes. Buttering up the executives. Strategically sprinkling buzzwords like "cross-collaboration," "client synergy," "pan-Nordic potential." Andy's voice echoes in the back of my skull, delivering a sermon on valuable projects and big-picture thinking.

But the two in my vicinity? They do not care. Neither of them so much as glances toward the main event after the obligatory "hi-I'm-from" intros. August's turned to stone, when he's not giving me straight up hostility. The Hedgehog is trying, valiantly, to keep the mood buoyant at our end—cracking small jokes, nudging the conversational balloon before it hits the floor. But we're all just floating in tension, dressed up for a party none of us want to attend.

And me? I'm quieter than I've ever been at one of these things. And that's saying something.

To make matters worse, we're doing the tasting menu.

Which—yes—I chose. I made the reservation. I picked this place because of the food, because the chef here is an actual artist and I thought the meal might at least make the evening worth it.

But now? Every plate that lands in front of me feels like a cosmic taunt. A carousel of tiny, exquisite portions I can't enjoy because my appetite has filed for divorce.

By course two, I'm ready to crawl out of my skin. I clock a sliver of an opportunity.

"I'm stepping out for a smoke," I say softly, mostly for the sake of protocol. "Anyone joining?"

To my surprise, the Hedgehog stands up instantly. As if he's been waiting for any reason to abandon ship.

Then—like some covert operation—he pivots, leans down, and murmurs something to August. I expect a quick no. August's too composed for any sudden movements.

But the Hedgehog gently tugs him up. Smooth, casual. Social aikido.

August tries to resist with a dry, "I'm fine, thanks."

Hedgehog ignores it entirely, already holding his coat out like he's the maître d' of bad decisions.

And somehow, just like that, all three of us are heading toward the door. A full-blown exodus from the awkward, one-course-too-long hellscape inside.

I take a deep breath as I hit the street, like the restaurant air was heavier than it had any right to be. It leaves a film in my lungs. Tastes like tension and overcooked scallops.

Nobody talks.

I offer cigarettes, half out of politeness, half to give my hands something to do. I know neither of them smokes. It's a ritual, not a habit.

The hedgehog takes one anyway.

I look at him, brows raised. He shrugs like a man resigned to third-wheeling a breakdown.

August doesn't even look at us. He's parked two metres away, hands deep in the pockets of his light coat, jaw tight, eyes fixed on something—anything—that isn't me. He stands like someone about to deliver a killer monologue. Preferably to an audience that isn't me.

"When I'm within two metres of you two, I need a cigarette," the hedgehog mutters, lighting up. "It's a survival instinct."

I huff. August rolls his eyes. The air between us shifts — sharp edges forming in silence.

Then the hedgehog sighs, dragging a hand down his face. "I'm tired of this. Please. Sort it out."

He turns to August. "I don't care if you two fuck or set each other on fire. Just stop making everyone else live in your weird Cold War fan fiction."

August turns his head. Finally.

He looks so good. Infuriatingly so. That sharp face, the collar skimming the line of his jaw, the kind of calm that only comes from being really mad and very pretty. Even his scowl is symmetrical. It's not fair.

"I don't really see the issue," he says, smooth and clipped. "You ghosted. I returned the favour. Seemed fair."

I scoff. "That's not a favour, August. That's a passive-aggressive ceasefire. Dressed up like diplomacy."

He raises an eyebrow. "That fits. Who even ghosts anyone anymore? You don't know how to use words? Be just a hint of a decent person?"

My mouth drops open. He's not even trying to hide the smug. He stands there like a well-dressed storm cloud, barely concealing the lightning.

My temper flares. Because yes, I ghosted him. But this? This condescending, cool-as-hell deflection? It gets under my skin like a splinter you can't quite reach.

"Right. I'm not," I snap.

I flick open the lighter. The flame jumps, holding steady in the humid summer air between us.

"So," I say, with a smile too sharp to be polite, "you want to try and solve this with fire?"

He glances at the flame, then at me—slow, deliberate. A dangerous smile curls at the edge of his mouth.

"Tempting," he says. "But I didn't bring marshmallows."

The hedgehog groans. "Okay. Love the pyro foreplay, but could one of you just apologise like the adults we're paid to be?"

I breathe in. I really don't want to. But I do.

"Sorry," I say. Clear. Clean. No sugarcoat.

August nods once. "Noted."

He says it flatly, but not unkindly. Like he's trying not to give anything away—least of all to himself.

The hedgehog claps his hands. "Great. Group therapy complete. Shall we go dine with the extinct?"

I turn to follow them inside, but not before I feel August's gaze land—steady and unreadable. Not cold. Not warm. Just there.

Present. Heavy.

Whatever it is, it doesn't feel settled. But it doesn't feel sharp anymore either.

The rest of the dinner goes by without drama. August looks at me. Even speaks. Our conversation floats along with everyone else's, smooth and civil. Like we're teammates. Colleagues.

We seem fine. Like maybe this is what forgiveness looks like. Or at least... what passing for it does.

***

I flop onto the bed and groan, deeply and without shame. Still fully dressed—boots on, buttons undone just enough to breathe. Doesn't matter. Horizontal is enough. This day? Easily top five on the international leaderboard of bizarre.

Helena flashes across my mind like an intrusive pop-up ad. My stomach knots on reflex. She hasn't texted about tomorrow night yet, and I pray that means she won't. I can't go through another round of emotional jump-scare theater.

Then—uninvited—my brain strolls back to August's desk. The mug with the smeared blue heart. Definitely his. Possibly kid-made. Does he have a kid? Or is someone just emotionally expressive with paint? The hedgehog's voice replays: "He doesn't talk about family. Or girlfriends." Plural. Great.

Cue the mental facepalm. Because no matter how hard I try not to think about him that way, my mind insists on presenting him like a smug little flipbook—jawline, smirk, coat collar, arms, and, for absolutely no goddamn reason, shirtless. Which is equally inappropriate and entirely unhelpful. I pinch the bridge of my nose like I can force-delete the image.

"Stupid. Stupid. Stupid," I mutter aloud. Because apparently, shame sticks better when narrated.

I rerun dinner in my head, post-peace treaty. He was... civil. Perfectly reasonable. But it was too neat. Too well-behaved. Every time he looked at me, it felt calibrated—like he was measuring the exact emotional dosage required to appear unbothered.

And his eyes. Still dark. Still unreadable. Still managing to say I haven't forgotten a thing while his mouth moved on about scallops or project scopes.

I exhale hard, willing my chest to unclench. Right. Meds. Bed. Maybe burn my own memory bank on the way there.

Boots first. Then blackout.