I’m going to spend Monday in a hospital, trying not to fall apart while my dad’s on a table.
And I don’t know how to carry that fear on top of everything else I’ve been carrying.
So I sit at my desk at the end of the work day, doing “last-minute stuff,” and my stomach stays twisted, and the shame stays heavy, and the worry sits in my throat like a bad taste.
The click of my stapler sounds too loud in the quiet.
I set it down, align the edges of the packet again, even though they’re already aligned, and slide the stack into Nico’s folder like precision can fix the fact that my insides feel raw.
I’m reaching for my notepad to write some instructions when his door handle turns.
It’s a small sound.
It still makes my pulse jump.
The door opens, and Nico steps out, jacket on, tie loosened slightly. He closes the door behind him, and his gaze lands on me immediately, like he knew I’d still be here.
He doesn’t look surprised.
He just looks… aware.
“Still here,” he says, voice normal.
“Still working,” I say, and it comes out sharper than I intend.
His eyes narrow a fraction, not in anger. In focus. He comes closer, stopping at the edge of my cubicle, and I wish he would just go the fuck away.
“How’s your father?” he asks.
The question is simple. Reasonable. The kind of thing a boss asks an employee whose father is having major surgery and will be gone for a week.
My stomach twists anyway.
“Fine,” I say too fast. “He’s— It’s scheduled. Monday.”
Nico’s gaze shifts over my face like he’s reading something I didn’t mean to show. Then his voice lowers, just a notch. Not secretive. Private.
“You’re upset.”
I let out a short breath that’s almost a laugh. Bitter. “No, I’m tired.”
“Erica.”
Hearing my name from him like that hits something in me that has nothing to do with work and everything to do with a hotel suite and the way he said it then.
I hate that it does.
I lift my chin. “Is there anything else you need for next week before I go?” I ask, too crisp, too professional, like I can steer us back onto safe ground by force.
He holds my gaze for a beat, then glances at the folder on my desk, the note on top, the neat tabs. “No,” he says. “You’re covered.”
“Great.” My hands move again immediately, shutting down my computer, stacking the few loose papers, sliding my notebook into my bag. Fast. Too fast. Like if I keep moving, he can’t pin me to anything.
“Erica.” He says it again, and this time he reaches down and takes my hand.
The contact stops me mid-motion.
My fingers go still in his.
