The call ends.
I set the phone down just as the door opens again.
Sabrina steps back inside, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with purpose. She smiles when she sees me watching her, like she has no idea the lengths I’ll go to keep her world safe.
Wrong Office
Sabrina
I’m sitting on the couch in Langston’s office, knees tucked beneath me, my notebook balanced on my lap—but I haven’t written a single word in the last ten minutes.
Because my mind keeps drifting back to yesterday.
To how easy it was.
How natural it felt to be with him. To work side by side without it feeling forced or transactional. We laughed—actually laughed—over stupid things. Over Jack pretending not to hear Langston when he asked for something. Over lunch arriving wrong and Langston insisting it was fate telling him to branch out.
It felt… domestic. Comfortable. Dangerous in the best way.
Right up until his phone rang.
I remember the way his whole body changed the second he saw the name on the screen. The warmth didn’t disappear—but it tightened, like steel sliding under silk. He stepped away to take the call, voice low, clipped. When he came back, his jaw was set, eyes darker.
Another warehouse overseas. Another delivery gone wrong.
And his father.
Even without hearing the words, I knew. I’d seen that look before—on my own father. That unspoken fix it or pay for it pressure that came with legacy and expectation.
“I need to go,” he’d said, already reaching for his jacket.
Then he’d paused. Looked at me like he was weighing something.
“Come with me,” he’d asked, surprising me. “I don’t know how long this will take, but I don’t want to leave you.”
I wanted to say yes.
God, I wanted to.
But the day had felt too perfect. Like a bubble that might pop if we pushed it too far. And I didn’t want to see him stressed and sharp and buried under responsibility—not yet.
So I’d smiled and shaken my head. Told him I was good. Told him I had plenty to work on.
He hadn’t argued.
Instead, he’d leaned down, pressed a soft kiss to my forehead, and murmured, “I’ll see you later, sweetheart.”
And just like that, as I sit here...I feel out of place in his too-big, too-quiet office
Jack still hasn’t finished the office next door. I told him—multiple times—that I didn’t care if it was empty. Four walls and a desk would’ve been fine.
Jack, in his infinite stubbornness, had waved me off and insisted I stay put.
“I’m not putting you in a half-done room,” he’d said. “Boss would murder me.”
At the time, I didn’t mind.
Now, sitting in Langston’s space—surrounded by his scent, his things, the faint imprint of him everywhere—I’m starting to regret it.
