You had slammed the door to her office. You hadn’t knocked. You hadn’t asked permission. Your rage had driven you forward, hadn’t given you time to think. Your hands had come down on her desk, scattering papers everywhere.

She had sat there, straight in her chair, the embodiment of icy calm that made you want to scream. She hadn’t lost control. She hadn’t yelled. And that was what made you angrier than anything.

You worked for her. You were her right hand. You were the one who had her back when the world was ending. But despite all of that, she never really asked for your opinion. She made decisions on her own. She put herself in danger. Death was just a triviality for her.

You tried to tell her a thousand times that this was not the way it had to be, that she had to trust you too, that it was better to choose another path together! that some of her decisions were too reckless and too rash

But she didn’t listen. She always did things her own way, even though you only wanted to help her.

The hours had gone by between accusations and tension.

And then, suddenly, she stood up from behind the desk.

Her figure was silhouetted against the light coming from the window —an imposing figure, authoritative.

Each of her steps towards you was slow and deliberate. Normally, her presence alone was enough to silence you.

But not this time.

You continued to speak, to explain how reckless she was, how reckless her decision was.

And then it happened: in an instant, without warning, she grabbed you and kissed you.

A sudden, decisive kiss that caught you completely off guard. Her lips on yours shut down every word, every protest. The world shrank to that contact, to that gesture that left no room for argument.

As she pulled away from the kiss, her face remained inches from yours. Her whisper danced across your lips, slow, low, full of confidence, with no room for debate.

“You should trust me more. I know what I’m doing…”