I slammed my folder shut and sat back in my chair, trying not to scream. Five drafts, two presentations, and three different "visions" later, my boss still wanted more. More precision. More energy. More... whatever the hell she thought perfection looked like.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like an insult.

"You good?" Pete’s voice came from the doorway, light but laced with concern.

I looked up and saw him leaning against the frame, coffee in one hand, his jacket half-zipped like he ran out of time or patience for both.

I sighed, hard. "Define 'good.'"

He stepped in, set the coffee on my desk—my favorite, of course—and dropped into the chair across from me like he owned it.

"She at it again?" he asked, nodding toward the hallway. "What was it this time—font too emotional? Layout didn’t spiritually align?"

I laughed, tired but grateful. “She said my tone was ‘too self-assured.’ Like I’m supposed to write confident and apologetic at the same time.”

Pete whistled low. “Damn. Dangerous combo. Confidence with a side of groveling.”

“Exactly,” I muttered. “She wants perfection, but I’m not a machine.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze steady now. “No one’s expecting you to be a machine but her. The rest of us? We know you're the only reason this place hasn’t crumbled into a pile of flaming nonsense.”