The adrenaline of the weekend hadn't completely worn off by the time I stepped into the office, but the "unbothered" veneer I’d worn at the bar was starting to crack. I felt dangerous. I felt alive. And, apparently, I smelled like it.
I walked into Julian’s office to drop off the morning reports, my steps a little lighter, my posture a little more relaxed than the brittle, high-strung version of me he’d been tormenting last week. Julian was behind his desk, the morning light catching the sharp, unforgiving angles of his face. He didn't look up immediately, but the air in the room felt heavy—a static charge that made the hair on my arms stand up.
I set the files down, the light scent of the bar—the lingering smoke and citrus—drifting between us.
Julian’s pen stopped.
He didn't look
