I snort quietly to myself.
At least I’ve learned one thing, booing him works. It really does. Like a spray bottle to a cat. One well-timed thumbs-down and he short-circuits.
He’s such a child. Evident by his insistent need to call me by that horrid nickname.
The bus jolts as it hits a pothole, and I sit up, rolling my shoulders, trying to shake the thought of him loose.
“God, I’m pathetic,” I mutter. The woman beside me gives me a look. I ignore her. I turn the music up louder and stare out at the rain-streaked world again, hoping it’ll wash him out of my head.
“Morning, Frank,”Tasha greets as I step into my office.
I’m normally a work-from-home loyalist with the matching Teams calls in oversized hoodies and meetings from my bed but with award season creeping closer and storyboards piling up for the new game concept, I’ve been forcing myself to show my face more often.
Unfortunately, my face is betraying me today.
“You look—” she pauses, squints, head tilting like she’s assessing a dodgy wire, “—tired.”
I wince. I know she’s phrasing it as kindly as possible.
“Great,” I deadpan. “That’s exactly the vibe I was going for.”
She snorts. “Rough night?”
“You could say that.”
“Bad date?”
“Worse,” I correct, dropping my bag with a dull thud and shrugging out of my jacket. “Za’s brother.”
Her eyes light up immediately. “The sexy rugby player?”
“Football,” I say automatically. “Not rugby.”
“Yeah. Right.” She waves a hand.
“And he’s not sexy.”
Tasha lets out a sound halfway between a scoff and a laugh. “Yeah.Right.”
I turn my monitor on, the screen illuminating my reflection just enough to catch the hesitation I don’t want her to see. Because if I’m being honest with myself—and I hate being honest with myself—he was…“sexy”.
Annoyingly so.
Bleh.
“Anyway,” I say a little too quickly, waving a hand , “he’s been crashing at our place. Eating my food. Breathing my air. Acting like he owns the place. It’s aggravating.”
Tasha hums. “So you hate him.”
“Deeply.”
“Does he know that?”
I scoff. “I’m sure anyone living on our floor knows that. I spend so much hours yelling at him I’m surprised we don’t get put out.”
I sink into my chair, rolling it closer to my desk, fingers already itching to ground myself in work.
Mouse.
