Page 53 of The Associate
“The brief,” Samuel began, his voice a dry rustle. He reached for the folder, needing to do something, anything, with his hands.
“Leave it.”
Samuel’s hand froze mid-air. Slowly, he retracted his hand, placing it back in his lap. The fine wool of his trousers scratched against his damp skin.
Samuel felt a fine tremor begin deep in his core, a vibration of pure, sustained alarm. He clenched his fingers around his own knee, the bite of his nails through the fabric a grounding pain.
“You’ve been quiet this morning,” Gael said. His tone was neutral, an observation of fact.
Samuel kept his eyes glued to the sharp corner of the desk. “I’ve been focused.” The lie tasted like ash.
“On what?”
Samuel’s mind went white.
On the way your hand felt.
On the sound I made when you touched me.
On wanting you to do it again and hating myself for it.
His heart was a frantic, trapped bird. “On the work,” he forced out.
A beat of silence, thicker than before. Gael leaned forward, just an inch. The movement was small, but it cast his shadow across the desk, over the file, toward Samuel. The proximity, even across the wide desk, felt immense.
“I do not like being lied to. Try again.”
A spark of desperate, wild anger ignited in Samuel’s chest, burning through the fear. He looked up, meeting that dark, all-seeing gaze.
“You don’t know me,” he said, the words sharp and brittle, like breaking glass. “You see a… a problem to solve. A broken thing to figure out. You don’t know the first thing about me, so don’t sit there and pretend that you do.”
He was breathing hard, the flush of anger on his neck quickly drowning in a flood of scorching shame.
You shouldn’t have said that.
Gael didn’t react. No anger, no offense. His expression remained unreadable, but his eyes… his eyes seemed to deepen, to focus more intently on the raw, exposed nerve Samuel had just revealed.
The air in the room grew denser, hotter, charged.
Then, Gael’s voice changed. It dropped, softening into a register that was nearly a whisper. “Did you sleep?”
The fight vanished. It was sucked out of the room, leaving Samuel hollow, defenseless. All the air left his lungs in a silent rush. The nightmares, the cold closet floor, the scripture chanted like a spell against the darkness; it was all there, laid bare.
Samuel couldn’t speak. Couldn’t lie. He just stared, his mouth slightly agape, his eyes wide with a horror.
The silence was the loudest thing Samuel had ever heard.
He stood up. The movement was jerky, uncoordinated, his body moving before his mind could command it. His chair screeched against the floor, a raw, ugly sound. He didn’t look at the file. He didn’t look at Gael. He turned, a stiff, graceless pivot, and walked to the door. His steps were too fast, a frantic, fleeing rhythm.
His hand was an inch from the cool brass of the doorknob. Escape was a tangible promise. The air from the corridor beyond seemed to beckon, a whisper of safety.
“Stop.”
The word was low, soft even, but it was cut from bedrock. It held no room for argument. It was a command, the first direct one since ‘look at me’ in the elevator.
Samuel froze. Every muscle locked. His fingers hovered, trembling, just shy of the metal. The single syllable echoed in the silent, sun-bleached room, wrapping around his spine and holding him in place.
Slowly, as if moving through deep water, he turned around.
