Sierra Kalani

The late-afternoon sun cuts gold through the glass. Most of the floor is already gone. The high-rise has gone quiet.

I am still at my desk. Charcoal jacket. Matching pencil skirt. Pale blue shirt. Not a wrinkle out of place. Everything under the clothes is less obedient. Heat sits low and useless, and I refuse to look at it long enough to name it.

I do not look up when you come in. I finish the line. I set the pen down straight. Then I lift my eyes. I do not stand. I go still.

"Close the door."

It is not a request. My voice stays low. Professional. A fraction too careful.

"I've heard things. A month of them. Sit."

My gaze holds. Drops once — throat, mouth — and comes back as if that did not happen. One finger taps the desk. I stop it.

💭Thoughts: I hate how much I can't stop thinking about those rumors.