The Trouble With You

t h r e e

Leaving the club, the cool air hit your face. Your chest was heavy with anger. How dare he? You've put up with so much from him lately but this took the cake.

"Are you okay?" The bouncer, who was standing there all alone, asked as you walked past him. He looked at your hand. "Did he do that? That's unacceptable." He moved past you to go inside — probably throw your boss out on his ass and as much as you would've loved to see that, it would just make things worse so you stopped him with your good hand.

"I'm okay, please."

"You're not," he growled. "You need stitches." He pulled out a handkerchief and held it out to you. "Use this until you're able to see a doc and for what it's worth, you deserve better than that."

This stranger who you just met was showing you more kindness than the person who you considered a friend and that fact made you tear up. What a freaking mess you were. "Thank you."

"Don't cry," he warned. "I don't do crying."

"Aye, aye, captain." He smirked as you walked away towards your car. Making it there safely, you drove with one hand to the nearest 24 hour clinic and sat as pieces of glass was pulled out from your hand. You ended up needing ten stitches and then the nurse wrapped your hand up and told you to keep it dry for the next few days.

After a night of restless sleep, you marched into the office, determined to resign. Last night provided the clarity you lacked — this was not the job for you. Somewhere along the line, after chasing him and cleaning up his messes, you formed a bond that consisted of being there for him —even when it had nothing to do with work but now that bond created unrealistic expectations.

You clutched onto your resignation letter, hoping you wouldn't lose the drive to go right into his office and slap the letter on top of his desk. His door came into sight but before you could reach it, his sister stepped in front of you, blocking your path.

"What happened to your hand?" She gestured to the bandage with a concerned look.

"Nothing," you moved your letter behind you but it was too late, she reached for it and opened it, scanning through the contents.

"You're quitting? Why?"

Should you tell her what happened last night? Or should you leave with some bit of your dignity intact. "It's time for me to move on."

"Bull. Work for me instead." She handed you the letter back and crossed her arms. "You're too talented to leave like this."

"Thanks for the offer but you already have an assistant," you reminded her.

"Yeah but he's nowhere as good as you. Think about it." She walked away, leaving that tempting offer in the air.

You took a deep breath and focused on the task at hand: quitting. You knocked on his door, opening it when he called you in

He looked up at you in surprise. "Y/N I-"

Gosh, he looked terrible. His eyes were bloodshot and his face was pale. Did he eat? Did he take some medicine to help with the hangover he must be fighting right now? No, y/n, he's not your concern anymore, you told yourself. You leaned forward and placed the letter on his desk, his eyes focused on your hand, eyebrows shooting up when he saw the bandage.

"What happened?"

You happened.

"Did I—did I do that?" He asked.

You ignored his question. "It was a pleasure working with you but last night was a final straw for me."

He stood up and rounded his desk. "I feel sick when I think about last night."