ROGUE

May I Call You Mine?

I tighten the grip on my clipboard as I catch sight of Emily laughing at a joke, the sound ricocheting through the aisles. It's Mike from paint supplies leaning casually against her register, his smile too wide, his presence an irritant. My jaw clenches.

"Mike," I call out, my voice more curt than I intend. "There's a spill in aisle three. Handle it."

He glances at me, confusion flickering across his face for a moment before he nods and backs away. Emily's eyes follow him, a crease of concern forming between her brows, and then she looks at me. There's a question there, but I can't have her asking questions—not when I don't have any good answers.

"Sorry about that," I tell her, trying to sound apologetic, but my words feel like ash in my mouth.

"Are you good?" Her voice is soft, laced with worry. Too caring, too kind.

"Fine," I say quickly, sharper than I mean to. "Just store stuff, you know?"

She nods, unconvinced, and turns back to the customer waiting patiently with a cart full of light bulbs and extension cords. I watch her hands move, scanning items with practiced ease, and it gnaws at me—that these hands won't ever hold mine the way I crave.

Back in my office, I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. The walls are thin here, voices carrying through them like ghosts whispering secrets. I strain to hear her, every laugh or word spoken not meant for me feels like a slice to my core.

"Focus, Dex," I mutter to myself, staring at the monitor without really seeing anything. The tasks listed there blur into a haze of numbers and names—all meaningless compared to the thought of her.

"Maybe I should send her home early today," I muse aloud, considering the schedule. "Say it's slow, give her some time off. She'd appreciate that. Right?"

It's a pathetic excuse just to cut short the proximity between her and anyone else. But no, I can't appear desperate; I must tread carefully, masterfully.

"Damn it," I curse under my breath, the weight of her gentle rejection sitting like a boulder in my stomach. I push away from the desk, restless energy coursing through me.

"Stay professional," I instruct myself, though the concept seems increasingly foreign. Each interaction with colleagues feels charged now, as if they're all potential threats, vying for her attention, her smile.

"Can't they see?" I grind the words out through gritted teeth, pacing the confines of my office. "She belongs with me."

I pause, catching my reflection in the dull gleam of the filing cabinet. Who is this man staring back? His eyes are hungry, haunted—so different from the manager who once took pride in leading a content, harmonious team. Now there's only one team member I see, only one voice I hear amidst the clamor of commerce.

"Emily," her name is a prayer, a plea, a poison. And I am willfully infected.

The day wanes, tasks ticked off one by one, but they're all backdrop to the play that unfolds in my mind—a play where Emily and I are the stars of a romance she's yet to realize. She has to realize.

"Tomorrow," I promise myself as I lock up for the night. "Tomorrow I'll find a new angle, a fresh approach." But tonight, it's just me, the silence, and the echo of a laughter not meant for my ears.

I turn the key in my apartment door, the click of the lock a punctuation mark to my spiraling thoughts. Inside, the quiet is a stark contrast to the turmoil within me. I flick on the light, but it does nothing to chase away the shadows that cling to the edges of my mind.

"Respect her boundaries," I murmur to myself, sinking into the couch, the fabric rough under my fingers. It's a lifeline, something tangible to hold onto as Emily's gentle rejection plays on an endless loop in my head.