I hate that.
I hate that it’s not happening to him.
He’s been… fine. Controlled. Professional. Smooth. Like Friday night didn’t happen. Like he didn’t see me at my worst and then touch me like he’d been waiting for it. Like he didn’t look at me afterward and speak to me like I was something he could manage, like a crisis to contain.
Monday morning, he asked about my dad’s procedure. Then he went back into his office, shut the door, and the day kept moving.
And I sat at my desk and pretended I wasn’t vibrating under my own skin.
Every day this week has been like that. I show up early. I act like I’m fine. I do my job. I smile at people who come through asking for him. I answer phones. I schedule. I print. I file. And then I look up, and there he is—walking past my cubicle like he owns the air I breathe, like he owns the building, like he owns the whole world.
And I can’t stop thinking about his hands.
I can’t stop thinking about that hotel suite.
I can’t stop thinking about the way my own body betrayed me.
The worst part is the bitterness that keeps bubbling up under everything else. It doesn’t even make sense, and it still shows up anyway. Because why should I be the one unraveling? Why should I be the one swallowing panic and shame while he’s sitting behind that door, doing just damn fine?
It makes me angry at him.
Then it makes me angry at myself.
The humiliation creeps in right after—quiet, hot, relentless. The way he handled the whole thing like it was nothing. The way he spoke to me like he knew exactly what to do, exactly how far to go, exactly when to stop. The way I didn’t. The way I couldn’t. The way my voice shook.
Inexperience. Embarrassment.
And then the embarrassment curdles into shame so fast I can barely track it. Shame at what I did with him, shame at what I let him do to me.
Shame at what I want him to do again.
That shame that grows all week, one day stacked on another, every polite “Good morning, Mr. Conti” another brick. Every time his gaze flicks over me in that assessing way, like he’s checking if I’m functional, another brick. Every time I catch myself waiting for him to look at me the way he did in that room, another brick.
By Thursday, I’m snapping at emails that don’t deserve it.
By Friday, I feel hollow and sharp at the same time.
I keep working anyway. I keep doing the tasks. I keep making lists because lists are safe. Lists don’t have feelings. Lists don’t wake up at 3:00 in the morning with heat crawling under their skin and a need so strong it hurts.
I drag Nico’s folder out and slide the documents into the correct tabs for next week. I leave a note on top with the contact info for the vendor dispute in neat handwriting.
My dad’s surgery is Monday.
That should be the only thing in my head.
But it’s not.
It’s Nico’s voice when he wants something.
It’s his calm when I’m not calm.
It’s the fact that he’s been fine, and I’ve been getting worse.
I keep telling myself a full week away from the office will help. A break from seeing him. A break from the door handle turning and that immediate, stupid jolt in my body. A break from the way shame follows me like a shadow.
But even the thought of being off doesn’t lift anything.
Because I’m not going off to relax.
