Proximity
654 Words
Working under Lucas Cross was not dramatic.
That was the problem.
There were no raised voices. No public humiliation. No sharp words people could whisper about later. Everything he said was calm, measured, professional to the point of sterility.
And yet, by midday, my shoulders ached from how tense I’d been holding myself.
I received my first task before I even sat down.
A neatly formatted email. No greeting. No sign-off.
Revise the projections. Remove redundancy. Deliver by 2 p.m.
I stared at the screen.
It was my work. My structure. My phrasing.
He hadn’t just skimmed it. He’d dissected it.
I adjusted my glasses and got to work.
At 1:47 p.m., another email arrived.
You’re still overcompensating in section three. Cut it.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard.
He hadn’t been copied on the revision yet.
I checked the sent folder. Nothing.
A chill ran down my spine.
I told myself it was coincidence. Experience. Guesswork.
Lucas Cross didn’t need to know me to know the work.
At 1:59 p.m., I sent the file.
At 2:01, my phone buzzed.
“Come to my office.”
No “please.” No explanation.
Just expectation.
His office sat at the end of the corridor, glass walls tinted just enough to feel like a barrier. I knocked once before stepping inside.
He didn’t look up immediately.
“Close the door,” he said.
I did.
Silence stretched.
Then he lifted his gaze.
Up close, the differences were sharper. The faint lines near his eyes. The confidence that came from years of being obeyed. He looked at me the way people look at furniture—evaluating function, not feeling.
“Sit,” he said.
I sat.
“You’re efficient,” he continued. “But you hesitate.”
“I like to be thorough,” I said carefully.
“No,” he replied. “You like to avoid mistakes.”
My throat tightened.
“That’s not the same thing.”
I nodded, even though he hadn’t asked.
He leaned back slightly, fingers steepled.
“You revise as if you expect punishment,” he said casually. “Why?”
The question landed wrong.
Too personal. Too accurate.
“I don’t,” I said.
He studied me.
Not searching.
Testing.
“Hmm.”
That sound—soft, dismissive—felt worse than criticism.
“From now on,” he continued, “you’ll report directly to me. I want updates twice a day. No exceptions.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ll stay late when needed.”
“Yes.”
“You won’t discuss your assignments with anyone else.”
I hesitated.
Just for half a second.
His eyes flicked to it immediately.
“Is that a problem?” he asked.
“No,” I said quickly.
“Good.”
I stood, waiting to be dismissed.
He didn’t say anything else.
I turned toward the door.
“Ethan.”
My hand froze on the handle.
“Yes?”
He paused.
Just long enough for my heart to start racing.
Then he said, evenly, “You’ve changed.”
I swallowed.
“I’m sorry?”
He waved a hand, already looking back at his screen.
“Never mind. Get back to work.”
I left the office on shaking legs.
That wasn’t nothing.
That wasn’t random.
That wasn’t the behavior of a man who didn’t know me at all.
But when I replayed it later—every word, every glance—I still couldn’t tell.
Did he remember me?
Or was I just hoping he did?
Outside, Mara’s car was parked across the street when I finally left.
She leaned out the window.
“You look like hell,” she said gently.
I slid into the passenger seat.
“He’s… precise,” I said.
She snorted. “That’s one word for it.”
I stared ahead, chest tight.
For the first time since seeing him again, something worse than pain crept in.
Uncertainty.
- Writer
