“You haven’t even given me a chance.”
“I don’t need to give you a chance.” Still polite, but firmer now. “I’m here to do a job. That’s it.”
“See, that’s your problem.” Grayson pushes off the wall, stepping closer. “You’re too focused on work. You need to loosen up. Have some fun.”
“And you think you’re the one to help me with that?”
“I think I could help you with a lot of things.”
My hand tightens on the water fountain. The urge to walk over there and physically remove him is almost overwhelming.
But it’s not my business. She doesn’t need me to save her. She can handle herself.
Can’t she?
“Reed.” Her voiceis sharper now. “I’ve tried to be polite about this, but let me be very clear. I’m not interested. I’m not going to be interested. And if you keep pushing, I’m going to have to take this to Dana.”
Grayson’s expression flickers—surprise, maybe, or annoyance. Then he smooths it out into that easy grin.
“Relax. I’m just being friendly.” He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “No need to get HR involved.”
“Then maybe take the hint.”
He laughs, but it’s not genuine. There’s something ugly underneath it. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
He walks away, brushing past me without a glance. I watch him go, resisting the urge to trip him.
When I turn back, Winnie is still standing there. She’s got her bag clutched tight, her shoulders stiff. And her hands—
Her hands are shaking.
She notices me watching. Our eyes meet across the hallway.
For a second, neither of us moves. Her expression shifts—embarrassment, maybe, or frustration. Like she’s annoyed that I witnessed that. Like she wanted to handle it without an audience.
I don’t say anything. I don’t offer comfort or commentary or any of the things a normal person might say.
I just nod. Once. Acknowledgment withoutintrusion.
She nods back, a tiny motion, and then turns and walks away.
I watch her go, something uncomfortable settling in my chest.
She handled it. She was polite but firm. She stood her ground. She didn’t need me to step in.
But her hands were shaking.
She’s dealing with this every day. The comments, the staring, the guys who can’t take a hint. She’s doing her job under conditions that would make anyone miserable, and she’s doing it alone.
Someone should do something about that.
I grab my bag and head for the parking lot, the thought following me like a shadow. Someone should step in. Talk to Dana. Talk to the guys. Make it clear that this behavior isn’t acceptable.
Someone. Not me. I don’t get involved in drama. I keep my head down, do my job, and go home. That’s how I’ve survived this long.
But the image of her shaking hands won’t leave my head. I stop at my truck, keys in hand, and stand there for a long moment.
She looked so small in that hallway. Not physically—she’s average height, normal build—but something about the way she held herself. Like she was bracing for impact. Like she’s been bracing for impact since the day she started.
