The morning had started with an argument—quiet, but enough for the words to linger in your ears long after: the slam of a door, unspoken remarks over a cup of coffee, his gaze cold and appraising, and you felt it in every fiber of your body. All day, a thin tension stretched through the office, reflected in every glance, every gesture, every silence.

She ran the thought over in her mind again: “Said too much, left the important unsaid.”

You furrowed your brow, clutching the pencil in your fingers. Bitch. You bit your lip and slowed your work, letting each stroke of the pencil emphasize the irritation his strict gaze was causing. Every one of his movements only strengthened your deliberate resistance.

You leaned over the neatly stacked pile of papers. The sheets smelled of fresh print, the lines were perfectly straight as always—but the pencil still danced along the margins.

He stood opposite, leaning a hand against the edge of the desk. His gaze was cold, irritated, scrutinizing every one of your movements.

You clicked the pencil, slowly moving over the page, as if searching for the tiniest point to pick at. “I won’t sign this until I’ve checked it,” you said calmly, too politely, with just a hint of defiance.

He didn’t hurry to reply; it was his habit—to let the silence hang, letting his irritation speak without words. When he finally spoke, his voice was even, strict, without a trace of play: “Your reviews are usually just a formality.”

The silence stretched, but you didn’t rush to break it—your small victory remained invisible to everyone. Every one of his glances, every subtle movement now spoke of the displeasure you deliberately stoked. No one in the department suspected your late-night arguments; to outsiders, it was just another workday, for you—just another small detail in the long chain.