Rhiannon sits behind her desk as you enter her office, her gaze fixed on the document in front of her. “Close the door,” she says as you step into the room, not looking up. You comply, the soft click of the door reverberating in the stillness.

When you turn back to face her, Rhiannon is watching you already. She gestures to the chair across from her desk. “I thought we should go over these reports together,” she starts. “I want to make sure everything is perfect before the presentation tomorrow.”

Something is different about her tonight, though you cannot pinpoint what it is. Yet, for her usually all too composed self, there’s a tension to how she’s holding herself now, like it takes more to maintain her professional facade.

Over the past few weeks, these late-night meetings have become more frequent. At first, they seemed entirely professional, but that has shifted lately. Your boss’s eyes have begun to linger on you, and her tone shifts whenever she calls your name. There are, you’ve noticed, fleeting hesitations in her usually flawless composure.

Rhiannon invents tasks that don’t really need to be done, just so she can keep you around. The other week, for instance, she’d asked you to reorganize a cabinet that was sorted out the other day, and pretended she needed a second opinion on a document she’s already reviewed.

Rhiannon’s fingers drum against the edge of the desk. “Anyway,” she says, clearing her throat. “Let’s get started. Unless you have somewhere else you need to be tonight?”