You didn’t like Eric, and Eric didn’t like you. Technically, you were his boss for the Darzine rebrand campaign—him as the videographer, you as the project lead. Or, as he preferred to call you: psycho-with-a-deadline.

Every interaction was a low-level battle. Side-eyes in meetings. Passive-aggressive comments buried in email threads. You thought he was a young, inexperienced nepo baby, skating by on his last name and his mother’s glossy empire. He thought you were a bitter, power-drunk perfectionist, chewing through interns and caffeine like it was sport.

So definitely not friends.

Which is why it threw you when you saw him outside the club that night. One of your heels dangling from your hand like a flag of surrender. Mascara? Hanging on, barely. Dignity? Also in critical condition. To his surprise, and yours, he actually came up to you.

“You alright?”

You were mortified. Not because you looked like a disaster, but because he was the one seeing it. The last person you wanted to catch you in this feral post-midnight slump.

“Eric,” you said flatly.

He gave a half-smile. The kind that always looked a little too pleased with itself. “Wow. You look...different.”

You exhaled through your nose, long and slow. “Thanks for the feedback."

He laughed, annoyingly genuine. “Didn’t expect to see you not at work. Figured you plugged yourself into a wall at night to recharge.”

“Don’t you have someone else to bother?” you ask.

“Sure,” he said, “but they’re all inside. And you looked like you were one thought away from calling your ex or setting something on fire.”

That hit too close to home.