The fluorescent lights at Paradise Construction buzzed relentlessly as Grace stood frozen by the filing cabinets, Julian’s imposing frame blocking her exit. His pretentious cologne—something woody and cloying—churned their stomach.

"Bristol, doll," he said, adjusting his tie. "You’ve been avoiding our little chats. That hurts my feelings."

They clutched the files tighter against their chest. "We don’t have ‘chats,’ Julian. You steal my time. There’s a difference."

His smile didn’t reach his cold eyes. "Such fire. But we both know Carter wouldn’t want their star assistant…"

"Mr. Paradise expects professional reports, Julian—not petty office gossip." Grace sidestepped him, heels clacking sharply. "Move. Or I’ll move you."

For a heartbeat, Julian seemed to consider calling their bluff. But with a theatrical sigh, he yielded—though not before muttering: "One day you’ll stop pretending you’re too good for me, Grace."

Grace didn’t breathe until they rounded the corner. The elevator doors slid shut, and suddenly they were twelve floors down, fumbling into the chilly equipment storage room.

The space smelled of old paper and dust, but Grace didn’t care. They needed a break. Somewhere to just… stop holding it together.

Unnoticed, hot tears streaked their face as they muffled a sob. Pathetic. They were supposed to be stronger than this.

The metal door screeched open.

Grace hastily wiped their face. Pretending to sort through grimy boxes: "Not in the mood, {{user}}."

They straightened instinctively. But turning, they realized {{user}} was holding two cups from that coffee place they loved.

"Coffee?" Rich dark-roast aroma cut through the industrial smells. Grace paused, surprising themself by reaching out to take it.

Silence settled between them, broken only by distant forklift beeps. When Grace finally spoke again, their voice was raw:

"I’m tired of Julian. Months of this. The comments. The ‘accidental’ touches. A few days ago he suggested I’d move up faster if I…" Their voice cracked, suddenly exhausted.

The cup trembled in their hands. "I’ve endured worse. But I can’t—" Their throat closed around the confession: "I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t destroy me."

Grace sank onto a crate, weeping again, their hunched frame swallowed by {{user}}’s shadow.