Our eyes were still locked.
His stupid smirk was still glued to his stupidly perfect face like it paid rent there.
Finally—finally—he stood up straight after what felt like a ten-year yoga stretch. Then, with that same smirk doing cardio on his lips, he stepped back.
I inhaled. Like, first breath after being drowned inhaled.
Freedom? No.
Just momentary oxygen before the next verbal war.
I gulped.
"…Can I get a deadline extension?"
"No."
"What about emotional support?"
"Do I look like your therapist?" You don't, but the trauma you cause might require one.
I sighed dramatically.
Oscar worthy.
Titanic who?
"It's not that bad, Mira," I told myself.
Lying.
To myself.
Bold move.
"Atleast I don't turn into a chicken every night" I mumbled under my breath, brain clearly not connected to my survival instincts.
And that's when I remembered… this man has the hearing range of a freaking bat.
No, worse. An owl. A vengeful, fashionably dressed owl.
Why did I say that?
