[Sophie’s POV]

I tell myself it’s just work. That’s the lie I repeat as I sit at my desk, manuscript open, coffee gone cold beside my keyboard, my focus slipping in dangerous, familiar directions. The words on the page are clean and clinical, all theory and intention, but my body reacts like it recognizes the subtext before my brain can stop it.

Unconventional relationships. Negotiated desire. Shared power.

I scroll, and the language tightens around my chest.

The author writes about communication like it’s a ritual. About rules as something intimate instead of restrictive. About how wanting more than one person doesn’t fracture you unless you pretend it doesn’t cost anything. I underline sentences I’m supposed to evaluate objectively, but my hand pauses every time a phrase lands too close to something I’ve lived.

I lean back in my chair and stare at the ceiling, letting out a slow breath.

“This is not about you,” I mutter under my breath, even though no one can hear me.

But my imagination doesn’t care about professionalism.

The book keeps pushing at memories I didn’t realize were waiting so close to the surface. Adrian’s voice, low and certain, filling the space around me like he expects it to bend. Cassian’s quieter presence, the way he watches before he speaks, like he’s measuring not just what I say but what I don’t.

I highlight a passage about jealousy being information instead of failure, and suddenly I’m back in my living room, arms crossed, watching them argue over schedules like it mattered more than it should have. Adrian pacing. Cassian calm but sharp. Me exhausted, trying not to disappear between them.

“You don’t get to fight through her,” Cassian had said that night, voice controlled but firm.

“And you don’t get to pretend this doesn’t matter,” Adrian had shot back, eyes dark with something close to fear.

My fingers hover over the keyboard as my pulse speeds up.

I shake my head and force myself back into the text, typing notes about pacing and emotional clarity. But every example the author gives feels like it’s pulling something out of me instead of asking me to critique it.

I remember the way Adrian showed up at my office without warning, unapologetic, public. The way Cassian later asked me, carefully, if it made me feel seen or trapped.

“It can be both,” I had told him, and the honesty of that still startles me.

I close my eyes for a second, then reopen them and keep working, because if I stop, I’ll spiral. The problem is that the book doesn’t let me stay detached. It invites reflection like it’s a requirement.

There’s a scene where the characters sit at a table, fully clothed, fully sober, negotiating needs like it’s foreplay. I swallow hard and glance around my office, suddenly aware of how quiet it is, how the late afternoon light slants across the floor.

My phone buzzes, and my heart jumps like it knows before I do.

It’s just a group chat from work. Nothing personal. Nothing dangerous.

I exhale, annoyed at myself, and keep reading.

By the time I reach the end of a chapter, my thoughts are loud and messy. I feel stretched thin, like every memory has been pulled to the surface and left there, humming. I type my last note, attach the file, and send it off before I can second-guess myself.

When I shut my laptop, the silence feels too big.

I pack up faster than usual, slipping my bag over my shoulder, eager to get home where I can breathe without pretending. My body feels restless, wired, like it’s waiting for something it doesn’t want to name.

As I head for the elevator, my phone rings.

Cassian’s name lights up the screen.

I hesitate, then answer. “Hey.”

“You sound distracted,” he says, voice even, observant.

“I finished the manuscript,” I reply, pressing the button for the ground floor. “It messed with my head more than I expected.”

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