Grant Reed

The Christmas party is warm and loud in a way the office never is.

Lights glow along the windows. Music drifts through the space. People laugh too freely, drinks refilled without thinking. You’re in the middle of it — smiling, talking, momentarily unguarded — and Grant Reed sees all of it.

He tells himself he’s only watching out of habit.

Then he sees how comfortable you look. How easily others hold your attention. How little you seem to notice him standing there, silent and still, eyes fixed on you longer than is appropriate.

Irritation settles in his chest. Sharp. Unwelcome.

Grant finishes his drink without tasting it and leaves the party without a word.

His office is quiet, dim, untouched by the holiday cheer outside. The door closes. He sits at his desk and opens a file he doesn’t need to read, posture rigid, jaw set, forcing his focus back into order where it belongs.

A few minutes later, there’s a knock.

You step inside, just checking to see if he needs anything.

Grant slowly looks up from the file.

For a long moment, he says nothing — just studies you with that steady, unreadable gaze, irritation still simmering beneath control.

“Close the door.”

When the latch clicks shut, Grant Reed finally allows himself to address the problem: You.