I wake up, grab my phone, seven forty— pretty early. I feel the warmth of Daniel's arm draped over my waist, his breath soft and slow against my shoulder. His face is turned toward me. It strikes me how beautiful he looks when he isn't trying. No banter. No charm. Just this vulnerable, unaware version of him I barely get to witness.

  I stay still for a few minutes, listening to the city stretching awake outside. A siren in the distance. Pipes groaning. Someone yelling "fuck" three floors down. Then I gently peel his arm off me and slide out of bed to feed the cats. Greta and Alfonso start meowing like crazy as soon as I get out of bed, so I run to the kitchen to feed them before they wake up Daniel.

  In the kitchen, I heat water for some mates and open the curtains just a little. I sit on the couch with my infusion and a couple of burned toasts with butter, and open my laptop to check on my presentation for Wednesday, and see what's going on today on the internet.

  So on today's episode of Earth: ‘ How can men be so confident and so insecure at the same time? They'll approach you like they're God's gift to women, but the second you're not interested, they crumble under their fragile masculinity like toddlers having a tantrum. He killed one of these girls because his ego couldn't handle 'no.' What kind of fucked-up entitlement is that?. This world is insane.

  On the other side of the globe, a Chinese guy disguised as a woman known as Sister Tung arranges sexual encounters with various men, films them and sells the content. Some of them stayed even after they noticed it was a man dressed as a lady. What gets me is that many of these men had wives and girlfriends at home, and they transmitted STDs to their partners. It's this weird male thing — they'll risk everything for sex with a stranger, even when it's clearly sketchy. Like, the need for sexual validation overrides literally everything else, including basic self-preservation.

  As I'm finishing reading about the intriguing Tung, I hear Daniel's dragging slippers. "Mornin'," he says, voice raspy. "You're up early."

  I shrug. "Yeah, I guess. We are with something kind of important at work, so we are meeting early at the studio."

  He keeps dragging his feet as he moves to the kitchen, "Really?, did you guys land a good gig?."

  I start rubbing my hands like a fly buzzing with excitement. "Oh babe, you don't know how good."

  "Did you make coffee?" he asks, suddenly.

  "Nope. Just heated water for some mates. I wasn't in the mood for coffee today. Want me to make some?"

  He shakes his head, "No, it's okay. I'll buy a coffee in the corner. What you were saying about your gig? sorry." He says while putting on a sweater and some shoes to go out.

  "No, it's okay. So, Robert said he is kind of proud of us, so he gave us this big photoshoot and he says he trusts us, basically, that we are perfect for this, and—"

  "Amazing babe!, I wasn't expecting that from Robert at all."

  I agree "Right?! It was a surprise for us also"

  He walks to the coffee table in the living room to grab his wallet and kisses my forehead really hard. "It's because you guys are the best, so proud of you."

  Now heading to the door "Come back in a sec!" and the sound of the door clicking closed.

  I stay motionless for one second. So used to this kind of interaction — no follow-up question, no real curiosity about my life. Just… autopilot support.

  I start scrolling on my Instagram feed again. World record. Bruises. Trolls calling it ‘sad', others praising her for pushing boundaries. I don't even know what to think. Empowerment? Exploitation? Both? None?. You go girl, but at the same time—why? If it's not under interiorized misogyny symptoms. That's not liberation, that's a twelve-hour shift that would break most people.

  Well I better stop pondering about the mistakes of humanity and get ready to go to work. I save my computer and I'm already heading to the bathroom to wash my face and layer my skincare, when I hear the door.

  "Baaaabeee I'm back." He sits on the bed with his coffee and cellphone. "Hey, I'm grabbing lunch with the guys today,"

  "That's nice," I say, splashing my face with water. "Who's going?"

  "The same old group, Paul, Eric, Peter, maybe even Martin, he always cancels at the last minute tho."

  Ugh Peter, I remember about that time he casually said while eating some pasta I cooked, as if being a good wife material is some kind of compliment. The pasta wasn't even good. It was canned tomato sauce and overcooked noodles.

  "Sounds good babe, have fun." I slip into my sneakers and grab my trench coat. Fit check on the way out — blue and white striped button-down, tucked into a charcoal pleated mini skirt, the oversized beige trench thrown over everything. White crew socks covering my ankles add that casual touch that made the whole look feel effortless but put-together. Finally going out.

  The car drops me a block and a half from the studio, because of construction. I step out into a fresh but sunny Monday morning, squinting against the sunlight.

  The streets around our building are always weirdly empty — the rent is cheap because the nearest subway is a full fifteen-minute walk and the bus only comes when it feels like it. But there, half block down, I see a familiar figure walking quickly toward the building. Jessie.

  She has a big tote bag slung over one shoulder and is wearing a black oversized hoodie and mustard bike shorts. Walking. Beyond the fact that Jessie hates to walk, it's really hard to get to the studio by foot. At the beginning we used to share a taxi to come here because we live kind of close, so I used to pick her up on my way and we divided the fare, but since we started doing okay with money we stopped, because the freedom of no one rushing you, or waiting for you is just better. Nonetheless there she is, one step in front of the other, walking.

  I slow down a little so I can reach the door at the same time as her.

  "Since when do you walk here?" I ask, teasing as I pull open the heavy gate.

  She looks up, slightly caught off guard, then smiles. "Oh, hey. Yeah, no—my friend lives like two blocks away, I crashed there last night."

  "Damn, that's convenient. Who's the friend?"

  "Just a friend," she says quickly. "Old school friend from, like, way back. I hadn't seen her in forever."

  "Cool," I say, but something in her smile is thinner than usual. I watch her fill water bottles like she's trying to stay busy. I boot up my computer. Jessie starts humming something under her breath while misting the ferns.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Just another Monday. But I have the weird feeling we're pretending a little harder than usual today.

  We're already at our desks when Dean finally rolls in, sunglasses on, hair doing that thing where it looks perfectly disheveled, chaotic but balanced.

  "Sorry, sorry," he says, tossing his bag to the corner. "MTA decided I needed to reevaluate my life for thirty minutes underground, and then it was impossible to get a cab."

  Jessie and I instantly move to the conference table, laptops open.

  He drops into the seat across from us and pulls out his laptop. "But I went through the deck you sent. I love the theme. Seriously." He locks eyes with me "Love love. Got a couple ideas we could build on."

  We spend the next hours working side by side in mostly focused silence, occasionally laughing at an awful reference image or vibing out to Jessie's playlist. We each have our tasks —Dean's hunting down locations and possible studios; Jessie's styling, sourcing looks and fabric tones; and I'm pulling together the makeup references, overall visual story, and preparing to pitch the whole thing on Wednesday.

  Around one, I stretch and ask, "Pasta?"

  Jessie shakes her head, pulling a sad little cup of 7-Eleven noodles from her bag. "Nah, I brought this."

  I raise an eyebrow. "Girl, are you in war economy mode?"

  She laughs, too quickly. "I just felt like noodles, okay?"

  I smile but something inside me shifts. Her smile has a little wobble today. Is she okay? Maybe she’s missing her parents. They'd moved back to Thailand last year when her grandmother got sick. She is really close to them. Not like me, the further the better.

  The delivery guy arrives with our food, but at lunch Dean barely touches his gnocchi, fingers just scrolling his phone under the table. His screen lights up every few minutes — a text, a notification — and every time, he'd glance down like it physically hurts to not check it immediately.

  After we eat, I walk them through the visual mockups I've made on Photoshop. Moodboards, brush-stroked layers, some texture overlays, a few bold color blocks — the story’s there. They both nod, offering a few tweaks about the tone. Jessie suggests a fabric that shimmers under direct light, which makes the whole theme feel more grounded. Then she presents some outfits she pulled from designer lookbooks, plus two pieces she wants to thrift and tailor.

  Then it's Dean's turn. He taps through a couple of images of outdoor locations — a beach in Staten Island that looks cinematic if you cropped out the trash, a studio in Queens that had good natural light. "I'll follow up for availability today," he says, still half-looking at his screen.

  I catch Jessie's glance. She sees it too.

  Dean's in the room, but not really. Fidgety, distracted, eyes flicking to his phone again and again. And when I say, "I think that's all we need for today," he's already standing.

  "Love you guys, see you tomorrow!" already halfway out the door before we can say goodbye.

  Jessie and I sit there a beat longer than needed. I close my laptop slowly.

  "Is he okay?" I ask, nodding toward the door he's just vanished through.

  Jessie just shrugs. "I admit it is weird, but if he wanted to talk about it, he would've said something."

  I nod. "True."

  I grab my coat and keys. "Wanna split a car?"

  She shakes her head, already turning back to her screen. "Nah, I think I'll stay a bit longer. I want to polish some ideas before tomorrow."

  I almost ask if she’s sure. Almost offered to wait. But something in her posture tells me to let it be. "Alright," I say. "Don't burn the place down."

  She smirks. "No promises."

  When I get home the lights are already on. I cross the door to see Daniel heading to the kitchen. He stops and looks at me.

  "Babe, you're home early!"

  I smile because for some reason he looks excited.

  "Yeah, we called it off earlier." I drop my things on the chair at the entrance, and walk to the room to change into my comfy pajamas.

  He shouts from the kitchen, "Do you wanna watch a movie?!" I’m pondering the decision and he continues "I can make popcorn." There’s nothing to ponder anymore.

  "Yes. Absolutely yes."

  "Perfect. You pick something," he says, "something ridiculous. I'm thinking of aliens."

  I change in a sec, flop on the couch, remote in hand, flipping through our movie platform like I'm on a mission. "The Fifth Element?"

  "Too chaotic," he calls.

  "Annihilation?"

  "Too weird."

  "Arrival?"

  He pauses, then says, "Oof. Emotional."

  "District 9?"

  "Closer."

  After a moment of silence, I got it. "Starship Troopers?…"

  "That's it!" He says triumphantly "it's exactly the movie we should watch."

  I smile already setting the movie, while quoting Johnny Rico "Let me tell you something. I'm from Buenos Aires, and I say 'kill 'em all!"

  After a couple of minutes, he brings a popcorn bowl over. It hits me before I even look—buttery, garlicky, something a little spicy. It smells insane. I grab a handful and pop a few in my mouth. "Oh my god. This popcorn is crazy good. What did you do to it?"

  He plops down beside me, stealing a few for himself. "Butter, sriracha powder, and a little smoked paprika."

  "Babe," I say, mouth full, "these are fire." I hug the bowl "Please tell me this bowl is just for me" and laugh.

  He smirks, smug. "I actually made two bowls." And goes running, socks sliding on the floor, to pick up the other bowl as proof. Genius. For a moment, the day melts off my shoulders. Just us, couch, a lot of popcorn, sci-fi.

  As the opening credits roll, he says casually, "Hey, I invited the guys to come over for dinner tomorrow."

  I tilt my head, still chewing. "Really? Like who?"

  "Same crew from lunch today. Paul, Eric, Peter—" I make a face. "—and Martin, who swears he's actually coming this time. He always says that tho. He is probably coming with Ana"

  That last thing makes me happy. Martin and Ana are the sweetest couple I know. He is always so supportive, such a golden retriever vibe. And Ana, is just gorgeous, cartoon princess material, blond hair, blue eyes, kind, with a hint of funny. It’s a relief she’s also coming.

  "Alright. Chill dinner, I don't mind. Are you cooking or are we doing the classic ‘Daniel orders something and shove it in the oven'?"

  "I might actually cook," he says. "Keep it low-key."

  "Cool. Just please, if there's red wine, keep Peter at a prudent distance from our furniture."

  "Deal."

  Halfway through the movie, I find myself watching his profile instead of the screen. He looks relaxed. Content, even. I'm really in the warmth of the moment. And out of nowhere the image of Dean's distracted eyes flicking over his phone, and how he bailed on us the second the meeting was done pops in my mind. The way he said 'Love you guys' like a post-it note stuck to a storm.

  I pick up my phone and send a quick message. "Hey, you okay? You seemed kind of off today. Just checking in." Then I drop it on the couch cushion.

  Later, we clean up the popcorn, make a couple of lazy sandwiches, and take them to bed. I set up the laptop on my thighs while Daniel nestles in behind me, his chest warm against my back.

  We watch some bodycam footage from one of those small-town cop shows where nothing happens until suddenly everything does.

  For once, I let myself feel it: peaceful. Safe. Everything is okay.

  At some point I just fall asleep.

  I don't know what time it is — just that something has cracked the night open.

  A low, rolling thunder growls somewhere above the city, long and guttural like it's clearing its throat. Then comes the flash — sharp and too white — painting the room in ghost-light for a second before it vanishes again. The rain follows like a tantrum. Sheets of it against the window. Wind howling like it wants to get in.

  I roll over, groggy, pulling the comforter up to my neck. Daniel's still asleep beside me, snoring softly, oblivious to the climate apocalypse outside.

  My phone's under the pillow. I check it on instinct. No texts.

  I reread it — — and feel a weird little ache form just behind my ribs. Not because he hasn't replied, necessarily. Just… Dean is the kind of person who texts . That's who he is. Who we all are with each other, no matter how chaotic things get. . And as I spiral into increasingly worrisome thoughts, I hear the tick tock, tick tock, reminding me to slow down.

  I try to snuggle a bit longer with the cats in bed, but the storm outside and the no reply thing keep me anxious. I scroll a bit more on my cellphone and decide that getting up and doing things is the best move forward. As I walk to the kitchen, I start getting depressed at the idea of going out in this weather. I open our group chat:

  Me:Okay, hear me out: home office today? I refuse to kayak to The Studio.

  Jessie replies within seconds.

  Jessie:Yes please. It's giving apocalypse out here.

  Jessie:Also my umbrella flipped inside out and attacked a guy.

  Jessie:So yes. Home office. I'm in.

  I smile a little, but still — no Dean.

  Me:Can we do a check-in call at 4? I wanna make sure we're all set for the pitch tomorrow.

  Jessie reacts with a thumbs up.

  Dean stays a gray ghost in the chat. But the call is already set. Maybe he'll pop in at the last minute like nothing happened, iced coffee in hand, pretending he isn't ghosting us.