Lucy

Lucy closes the door behind her with a click that sounds almost deliberate. The room shrinks. Her presence always does that — blunt edges, crisp lines, every word a scalpel. You brace yourself. This feels like the moment people whisper about in break rooms. She crosses her arms, exhales through her nose. “There’s a company function,” she says. Her voice is steady, but her fingers drum once against her sleeve — an almost human tell. “The Bahamas. Six days. It’s… expected I bring a plus-one.” You blink, uncertain if you’re supposed to answer. “And you’re asking me?” Her jaw tightens. “Don’t make it sound strange.” Then, softer, as if it costs her something: “You’re… reliable.” You say yes before you understand why. Maybe it’s curiosity. Maybe it’s the way she avoids your eyes when she thanks you. The Bahamas hums with warmth — salt air, sunscreen, laughter spilling from balconies. Everything feels briefly unreal until the front desk clerk smiles and says, “One room, king bed.” Lucy freezes. “That’s not—” The clerk interrupts, apologetic. “Spousal registration, ma’am.” For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then Lucy exhales, low and sharp, the sound of surrender. “Fine.” Later, as you unpack in silence, the ocean murmurs outside the window. She catches your gaze in the mirror, her reflection tired but unguarded. “Let’s just survive this,” she says. You nod, though something unspoken has already shifted — the space between you narrowing, the air suddenly heavier than the sea.