Marcel

The weeks that follow blur into a rhythm I didn’t expect to fall into so easily.

Lori and I, once locked in tense standoffs and avoidance, have somehow slipped into something that resembles—dare I say it?—friendship.

It’s strange, but I don’t hate it. In fact, I might actually enjoy her company, though I’d never admit it to her outright.

We’ve started grabbing coffee together in the mornings, meeting at the little café across the street from the office.

She started getting something sugary—a caramel macchiato with whipped cream piled high—and teases me for my black coffee with a dash of oat milk.

“You’re so predictable, Marcel,” she says one morning, watching me take the first sip. “When’s the last time you ordered something that didn’t taste like despair in a cup?”

I smirk. “I’ll have you know, I ordered a vanilla latte once. Last week. It was... fine.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re hopeless.”

And yet, she still insists on meeting me there every morning, rain or shine, before we walk into work together.

Weekends have become a thing, too. Sometimes, if we’re drowning in deadlines, we stay late at the office, ordering Chinese takeout and working side by side until our brains give out.

Other times, we go out, hitting up bars or pubs, usually at her suggestion.

Lori thrives in those spaces—bright lights, loud music, and a sea of people. She’s like a magnet, drawing attention wherever she goes.

The MedVax project is coming together better than I could have hoped. Even the finance team, notoriously stingy and reluctant to approve big budgets, has agreed to fund it generously.

That’s a weight off my shoulders—not just for the project’s sake, but for Lori’s, too. I won’t say it out loud, but I’ve been quietly worried about her ever since I found out about her rent situation.

Of course, I’ll never tell her what I did. That I was the one who slipped cash into her mailbox a few weeks ago, bundled in an unmarked envelope.

Lori is fiercely independent, so stubbornly self-sufficient that she’d rather struggle than accept help. If she ever found out I was behind it, she’d probably never speak to me again.

And honestly? I don’t want to lose what we have.

But tonight, all those little moments we’ve shared—coffee mornings, late-night work sessions, jokes over dumplings—feel like they’re slipping through my fingers.

We’re at some crowded bar downtown, music pounding, the air thick with laughter and the tang of spilled drinks.

Lori, of course, has been the life of the party since we got here. She was the one who dragged me out, promising it’d be fun. And it was fun, for a while.

Until she got on that dance floor.

She’s dancing with someone—a tall, striking woman with deep red hair and a body that commands attention. They’re both laughing, swaying to the beat in a way that feels... intimate.

I’m sitting at the bar, nursing my drink and trying not to let the green-eyed monster claw its way out of me. But it’s hard. Impossible, really.

Because Lori looks... radiant. The kind that makes my chest ache.

It’s stupid, I know it’s stupid. She’s allowed to dance with whoever she wants, flirt with whoever catches her eye.

We’re not anything. We’re barely friends, if you think about it.

But that doesn’t stop the sharp pang of jealousy from twisting in my gut every time her dance partner leans in close, whispering something in her ear that makes her throw her head back in laughter.

I take another sip of my drink, hoping the burn of the alcohol will drown out the irritation swirling in my head.

But it doesn’t work.

My gaze keeps drifting back to her, no matter how hard I try to look away.

She’s wearing a black leather jacket over a cropped top and jeans, her hair tousled and perfect in a way that looks completely unintentional. And her smile—God, her smile.

It’s bright and carefree, the kind that makes you forget there’s a whole world outside of her orbit.

I hate that I notice these things. But I can’t seem to stop noticing.

“Another drink?” the bartender asks, interrupting my thoughts.

I glance down at my nearly empty glass and nod. “Yeah. Make it a double.”

The bartender smirks knowingly, like he’s seen a hundred people in my position before—sitting alone, staring wistfully at someone who doesn’t even know they’re being watched.

As he mixes my drink, I force myself to focus on anything else. The music. The crowd. The sticky countertop in front of me. Anything but Lori.

But then, out of the corner of my eye, I see her glance in my direction. Just a quick, fleeting look, but it’s enough to make my heart stutter in my chest.

She smiles at me—small and a little teasing—before turning back to her partner.

And just like that, the butterflies are back.

I thought I’d gotten rid of them weeks ago, after our kiss. I told myself it didn’t mean anything, that it was just a stupid moment of weakness.

But now, sitting here, watching her move so effortlessly, so beautifully, I realize I’ve been lying to myself.

The truth is, I want to be the one on that dance floor with her.

I want to be the one making her laugh like that, the one who gets to hold her close, feel the heat of her skin, the rhythm of her heartbeat against mine.

I want her.

And the worst part? I don’t know if I’ll ever have the courage to do anything about it.

The bartender slides my drink across the counter, and I take a long sip, trying to steady myself.

When I look back at the dance floor, Lori and her partner are gone.

For a moment, panic flares in my chest. Did she leave? Is she—

“Hey, you.”

I turn, and there she is, standing next to me, a little breathless, her cheeks flushed from dancing.

She bites a lip while smiling.

My heart does a huge skip and I don't know how to talk anymore.