The next morning, the office felt heavier than usual.
Whispers followed me down the hall. Eyes lingered too long. Files slid across desks like tiny warnings.
And then it happened.
My manager called me into her office. Door shut. The faint hum of the air conditioner suddenly loud.
"Aria," she said, voice calm but sharp, "I've been receiving complaints about… workplace distractions."
I froze.
"Distractions?" I asked, carefully.
"Colleagues have noticed… certain behavior," she said, sliding a folder across the desk. Inside were emails from coworkers, vague but pointed, all hinting at "unprofessional interactions."
I felt my chest tighten.
Luca's words came back to me: You don't need permission to take up space.
I didn't answer her immediately. I just breathed, letting the panic simmer beneath the surface.
"Would you like to respond?" she asked.
"I… will handle it," I said. "Thank you."
Back at my desk, my phone buzzed. Noah: Are you okay?
I stared at the screen. I will be, I typed. But even as I hit send, I knew the outside pressure wasn't going away.
And the worst part? I wanted to feel safe with both of them in this storm.
I wanted them close. And I knew that desire alone was dangerous.