Lori

The office is suffocating today. It’s not the lack of air-conditioning or even the oppressive hum of fluorescent lights—it’s Marcelina Navarro, sitting across from me with her pressed blazer and her perfectly judgmental scowl.

We’re on hour five of tweaking this presentation, and if she sighs one more time, I might lose it.

She’s doing that thing where she doesn’t outright criticize me, but everything about her demeanor screams disapproval.

Her pen taps against her notebook in an irritating rhythm, like she’s counting down to the moment when she finally explodes.

And, because I’ve apparently been gifted with the patience of a saint, I beat her to it.

“What now?” I ask, not bothering to hide the bite in my tone.

“Nothing,” she says, but her voice is clipped.

“Yeah, that sounded like ‘nothing.’” I sit back in my chair, crossing my arms. “Just say what you’re dying to say, Marcelina. I know you want to.”

Marcelina is acting like I murdered her cat.

Not that she’s ever mentioned having one, but she seems like the type—pristine white fur, probably named something ridiculous like Fitzgerald.

The last time we saw each other was Saturday night at the bar. Everything was great but since morning, all I’ve gotten is curt responses and rude huffs.

She is flipping through slides on her laptop like they personally offended her. Her jaw is tight, lips pressed in a thin line she pulls when she’s trying too hard to act like she isn’t annoyed.

Her head snaps up, and her eyes pin me with that sharp, no-nonsense look she’s perfected.

It would intimidate me if I hadn’t seen her melt over a cappuccino with extra foam two weeks ago.

“I’m perfectly fine,” she says, a little too sharply.

“Sure you are.” I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms. “If ‘fine’ means pretending I don’t exist.”

Her lips part, but no words come out, and for a second, I think she’s going to crack—actually admit what’s bothering her. But Marcelina is a fortress, all polished stone and locked gates with fucking high walls.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says finally, her tone smooth as glass. “Let’s just focus on the presentation.”

Translation: Drop it, Lori.

But I can’t. There’s something about the way she’s avoiding my gaze, the way her fingers tap too quickly on the keyboard, that makes me dig my heels in.

“Did I do something?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light. “Forget to send an email? Steal your coffee?”

She exhales sharply, her fingers pausing mid-type. “Why would you assume this has anything to do with you?”

“Because you’re acting like we weren't together on Saturday. Where did I go wrong from there? Did I do something you didn't like?”

Her mouth twitches—almost a smile, but she tamps it down. “You’re insane.”

“Insanely observant,” I counter. “Seriously, Marcel. Did I piss you off? You can tell me. I can take it.”

Her eyes meet mine for the first time all day and something flickers there but it's gone before I can tell.

“It’s nothing,” she says, closing her laptop with a decisive snap. “Let’s move on.”

I scoff. "You're so fucking mean you know that? No wonder you have to kiss ass to be liked."

She stops typing when I speak. Her dark eyes are unreadable, but her jaw tightens just enough to let me know I’ve hit a nerve.

“Excuse me?”

I don’t back down. I can’t. The hours of stress, the sleepless nights, the constant nitpicking—it all boils over, and I let it out.

“I’m just saying.”

Her eyes narrow, and for a second, I think she’s going to fire back with one of her cutting retorts. But instead, she just stares at me, her expression shifting—just slightly—into something I can’t quite place.

“That’s what you think this is about?” she says, her voice quiet now, almost dangerous. “Me wanting to be liked?”

I shrug, even though the sudden change in her tone makes my stomach twist. “Isn’t it? You spend so much time making sure everyone sees you as Little Miss Perfect but in real life, you're just a mean entitled princess who can't wait to get in Daddy's seat. It’s exhausting just watching you.”

Her face goes blank, a wall slamming down so quickly it’s almost dizzying. She turns back to her laptop without another word.

And just like that, it’s over. Or it should be. But I can’t shake the look on her face before she shuts me out. Like I’d said something she’s been afraid to admit to herself.

***

For the next few hours, we work in silence.

Well, she works.

I mostly stare at my screen, the words blurring together as I replay that moment in my head.

The hurt in her eyes. The way she just shut down. I've seen Marcel annoyed, stressed, even angry—but I've never seen her hurt before.

I didn't even think it was possible.

By seven, I can't take it anymore. I reach into my bottom drawer and pull out the bottle of wine I'd stashed there this morning.

It's nothing fancy—just a cheap red I grabbed from the corner store—but it's something.

"I'm sorry," I say, placing the bottle on her desk. "I was being a jerk."

She stares at the bottle for what feels like forever. Just when I'm about to grab it back and retreat to my desk in shame, she lets out a small snort.

"Wine near white carpet and important documents?" She shakes her head, but she's already reaching for her desk drawer, pulling out two paper cups. "You really do live dangerously, don't you?"

Soon we're sitting on the floor behind her desk, passing the bottle back and forth like teenagers hiding from their parents.

The wine is warm and probably terrible, but it does its job. Slowly, the tension begins to dissolve.

"I really am sorry," I say again, picking at the label on the bottle. "About what I said. About you being..."

"An entitled princess?" Her smile is small but real. "It's fine. Sometimes I wonder."

Something in her voice makes me look up.

In the dim light of her desk lamp, with her blazer discarded and her usually perfect hair slightly messed up, she looks different.

More human somehow.

"You want to know something pathetic?" I find myself saying. "I still check my ex, Julian's Instagram every day. Not because I want him back—God, no. But because for three years, he made me feel like I had a purpose. Like someone needed me." I take another drink, letting the wine burn away the lump in my throat. "Even if that need was toxic as hell."

Marcel's quiet for a moment, twirling her empty paper cup between her fingers.

"At least you tried," she says finally. "I just...don't. Relationships, I mean."

"Never?"

"It's easier that way." She stares into her empty cup like it holds some kind of answer. "You can't lose control if you never give it up in the first place."

"Is that what relationships are to you? Losing control?"

"Isn't that what they are to everyone?" She looks at me and my chest tight. "You let someone in, and suddenly they have all this... power. They can hurt you, change you, leave you. At least if you're alone, you're safe."

"Safe sounds lonely," I say softly.

She laughs. "Says the girl who dated someone toxic because she needed to be needed."

I snicker, raising my cup.

"Here's to our spectacular romantic failures."

We both laugh. The presentation still isn't finished, and tomorrow we'll probably both have headaches, but right now, none of that seems to matter.

There's something intimate about sitting on an office floor after hours, sharing cheap wine and cheaper paper cups, letting our carefully constructed walls crumble just a little.

I look at Marcel, and realize this is probably the most honest conversation either of us has had in ages.

Her feet are bare, heels kicked off somewhere under her desk. Her lipstick is slightly smudged from the wine. She looks... real.

"You know what's funny?" I say, breaking the silence. "I always thought you had everything figured out. The perfect job, the perfect schedule, the perfect life."

She snorts.

"Perfect is exhausting," she admits. "Sometimes I look at you and your chaos and wonder what that's like."

"Trust me, it's overrated. Especially when you're crying over ex-boyfriend posts at three AM while eating cold pizza."

"Sounds messy."

"It is."

"It's real, though."

I turn to look at her, and for a moment.

We're so different, Marcel and I, but maybe that's not such a bad thing.

"You know," I say, nudging her shoulder gently, "being messy isn't so bad when you have someone to be messy with."

She raises an eyebrow, but her smile reaches her eyes this time.

I watch her pour the last of the wine into our cups, and realize that maybe this is what I've been missing—not the drama with my ex, but this: real connection, messy and unexpected.

I'm not sure she sees it yet.