Page 21 of The Prime-Time Experiment

The further she moved from the doors, the more the noise lost its shape. Behind her, the exit slammed shut.

Riley did not stop walking. And she did not look back.

Chapter 6

Misattribution of Intent

Riley

The apartment was quiet in a way the gym had not been. Not silent, there was the low hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of traffic filtering through the windows, the soft, familiar creak of the floorboards somewhere down the hall but it was predictable. Each sound existed within a range Riley could anticipate, could categorise, could allow to fade into the background without effort.

It should have settled her, it normally would. She always found comfort in familiarity, in her routines and their apartment. She didn’t often want to go out and try new places, because none would feel as right as home does. But when she stepped in today, it didn’t seem to create the same relieving response.

Riley closed the door behind her a fraction harder than necessary, the sound sharper than she intended. Her hand stayed on the handle for a moment too long, her grip tightening slightly before she released it. The fabric of her leggings still felt wrong against her skin, less invasive now than it had been under the lights, but not ignorable. It clung in a way that refused to disappear from her awareness.

She didn’t move further into the apartment; she felt as if she couldn’t. Her breathing hadn’t regulated. She could feel it, too fast and shallow, causing her chest and shoulders to feel tight. The added quiet of the apartment didn’t absorb it; it seemed to sit there unresolved.

“Riley?”

Dee’s voice came from the kitchen, closer now. Footsteps followed a second later, quick yet unhurried. She appeared in the doorway, already dressed down into her pyjamas. Riley often wondered how she could feel so comfortable in clothes so professional during the day, and yet wear something so opposite at night. Her current choice of pyjama was a matching two-piece set, if you could call it that. The light pink silk shorts were so tiny that Riley imagined Dee could wear them as underwear, the matching top so cropped that she knew Dee currently exposed more flesh than Riley showed in her current two-piece swimsuit.

Dee’s gaze moved once, quick and efficient to Riley’s posture, her hands, her breathing, the stillness that wasn’t stillness, and something in Dee’s expression shifted into pure focus.

“Okay,” she said, already moving. “Nope. We’re not doing this here.”

Riley frowned slightly, the reaction delayed. “Doing wha—”

“Bathroom,” Dee cut in. She reached for Riley’s wrist guiding her down the hallway. “Now. Shower and change out of this fascinating outfit, and then you can talk to me.”

“That is not a logical sequence,” Riley said, even as she allowed herself to be moved. “The information should be relayed while it is—”

“Riley.” Dee stopped just long enough to meet her eyes fully. “Shower first.”

Something in the tone cut through what remained of Riley’s state.

“…Fine,” she said.

Dee nodded once, satisfied, already turning to grab a towel. “Good. I’ll put your pyjamas on your bed. They won’t make you want to crawl out of your own skin.”

Riley didn’t respond, because the statement was accurate.

The bathroom door closed behind her a moment later, the sound softer this time. Water hit the sink in a steady stream, consistent enough to anchor her. The imbalance didn’t disappear entirely, but the predictability of it softened the edges enough for her breathing to slowly regulate, the pressure beneath her skin reducing into something she could finally compartmentalise.

By the time she stepped back into the apartment, dressed in her own pyjamas, which consisted of an oversized t-shirt and loose shorts, the environment had reasserted itself as predictable. Far more manageable than before.

Dee was in the living room curled slightly into the corner of the couch with one leg tucked beneath her, her mug balanced loosely in her hands. She looked up as Riley entered, gaze moving over her once again, slower this time seemingly confirming rather than doing another assessment.

Riley exhaled quietly and set herself down on their couch. It didn’t seem like much, but Riley had chosen this couch, and over time found that the left side of the couch was her comfort spot. It didn’t make a difference if someone sat in it, it wasn’t like that. But having it settled something in her.

“Tell me what happened, I expect it was bad based on your reaction,” Dee said, her tone light.

Riley’s expression shifted, faintly. “That is not a useful metric, expectation.”

“It is for me,” Dee replied easily, taking a small sip from her mug. Then, as if the conversation had taken a turn Riley hadn’t authorised, she added, “Actually, before we get into this.”

Riley stilled, her hand still resting lightly against the edge of the bench.

“I was working with one of my kids today,” Dee continued, already moving toward the kitchen. “And they’ve absolutely destroyed my ball of wool.” There was a faint note of amusement in her voice, threaded through something more deliberate. “It’s part of a regulation exercise, keeps their hands busy while we talk but they’ve tied it into knots that I cannot undo without losing my mind.”