Marcel.

The slam of the front door echoes through the house, and I know it's Lori leaving.

She didn't say a word before she walked out, but her silence was loud enough.

I lean against the desk, gripping its edge as I stare at the spot she was standing just moments ago.

Shoving away from the desk, I head upstairs. My mother's parting jab-weak, pathetic, men-bounces around my skull like a curse.

Each word feels sharper than the last, cutting into the cracks I work so hard to hide. Lori tried to soften the blow, but her kindness only made it worse.

I don't deserve it.

In my room, I lock the door behind me. I don't want to see anyone. Not Lori. Not my mother. Not even my own reflection.

I pace for a while before collapsing onto the bed, staring at the ceiling as if it might have answers.

Hours pass. The house is still. My phone buzzes on the nightstand, cutting through the quiet.

It's Lori.

Her text is short, simple. Nothing like my mother's sharp reprimands or the flurry of thoughts drowning me. Just:

Are you okay?

I don't reply.

I don't know why. Maybe it's because I'm not okay. Maybe it's because if I let myself talk to her, I'll break apart completely.

Whatever the reason, I set the phone down and turn my back to it, letting the night swallow me whole.

×××

Monday arrives with gray skies and relentless rain.

I regret my choice of clothes the moment I step outside. My light top clings to my skin, the dampness seeping through. By the time I reach the car, my fingers are stiff from the cold.

Lori doesn't comment when I walk into the office. She greets me with a nod, her expression unreadable. For a second, I think she's giving up on me, finally realizing I'm too much trouble to deal with.

Or I'm not just worth it.

The thought stings more than it should.

We work in silence, the rain drumming against the roof.

I try to keep it cool but half way through, she notices me shaking. Without a word, she shrugs off her coat and drapes it over my shoulders.

"I don't need it," I protest, my voice sharper than intended.

She doesn't argue. She just steps back, leaving the coat where it is. Her warmth lingers in the fabric, and I hate how much I need it.

Now I can't give it back because it smells so much like her and I like it.

By Tuesday, the tension between us is palpable. We exchange the bare minimum of words, our conversations clipped and formal.

But by Thursday, the ice starts to thaw.

It's small things-shared glances, brief moments of understanding-but they're enough. I catch myself softening around her all over again, and I hate how much it feels like I can breathe again. Lori is like my best friend now even though I will never acknowledge it.

Friday night finds us huddled in the office, laptops open and papers scattered across the table.

MedVax's owners are coming on Monday to review our work. The weight of it presses on my chest, each passing minute a reminder of how high the stakes are.

We've done great work so far but I just need it to be flawless. This will determine if Dad trusts me enough to let me have the company or not.

"We should take a break," Lori says, leaning back in her chair.

I glance at her, frowning. "We don't have time for breaks."

She shrugs. "We won't get anything done if we burn out. Pizza?"

I don't argue, too exhausted to protest. She places the order, and when it arrives, we eat in silence, the air between us easy than it's been all weak.

Somehow, we end up with a bottle of wine between us. One of those random ones Lori keeps in her desk. I'm not complaining, I need this.

It's not planned.

One minute we're nose-deep in work, and the next, our laptops are closed, and she's passing the bottle to me.

I take a sip, the warmth spreading through my chest. She watches me, a small smile tugging at her lips.

"What?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Nothing," she says, shaking her head. "Just... it's nice. Seeing you relax for once."

I scoff, but there's no real bite to it.

The bottle makes its way back to her, and then to me again. Each sip blurs the edges of my nerves until they're soft.

We're laughing at something stupid-neither of us will remember what later-when it happens.

She leans closer, her hand brushing against mine as she reaches for the bottle.

I freeze.

The room feels smaller as her eyes meet mine, and the laughter fades, replaced by something heavy and electric.

My heart stumbles in my chest as she leans in, her face inches from mine. For a moment, I think I should pull back, say something, do anything to stop what's about to happen.

I'm just going to prove Mom right, I'm just going to be the pathetic woman she thinks I am.

But I don't.

When her lips press against mine, it's soft and foreign just like every other time she has kissed me. There's no getting used to her lips, they taste unique every time.

She's giving me the chance to pull away. I don't.

I kiss her back.

The bottle tips, forgotten between us, as my hands find her shoulders. Her fingers tangle in my hair, and the world narrows to the taste of wine on her lips and the warmth of her against me.

It's not perfect. It's messy, hurried, and maybe a little reckless. But for the first time in what feels like forever, I don't feel like I'm drowning.

When we finally break apart, her forehead rests against mine. Neither of us speaks, our breaths hurried.

"We shouldn't have done that," I whisper, though my hands are still on her shoulders, holding her close.

"Probably not," she agrees, her voice just as soft. But she doesn't move away either.

For a long moment, we stay like that, caught between regret and something else.

"I really want to do that again," she mumbles, more a plea.

I smile. "I know."

And I crash my lips on hers again.