Jamie

Chapter Three — Jamie

Jamie barely remembered leaving Julian’s office.

One minute, he was sitting there—staring across the desk at the man who’d once dragged his teeth down his neck—and the next, he was speed-walking to the far end of the hallway, clutching his phone like it was an inhaler.

His legs moved on instinct. His brain? Useless. A scrambled mess of what the hell just happened and why the hell did he say that.

He ducked into a storage room he found unlocked near the supply wing. It was dim and narrow, packed with boxes and the sharp tang of toner. But it was quiet. Blessedly private.

He shut the door, leaned back against it, and exhaled like he’d just outrun a bear.

His heart was still jackhammering.

His palms were sweating.

His head? Completely filled with Julian’s voice.

> “I remember everything.”

Jamie groaned and slid down the wall until he was crouched on the floor, knees up, arms folded tightly over them.

Of course Julian remembered.

Of course he remembered. That night hadn’t exactly been forgettable.

The way Julian had kissed him—hard, certain, like he was devouring something he’d missed for years. The way his fingers had curled around the back of Jamie’s neck, possessive. The way he’d held Jamie’s wrists down with one hand while whispering good into his mouth every time he moaned.

Jamie had felt known. Even if it was anonymous.

And now?

Now the man who had turned him inside out on a hotel mattress was writing performance goals on a whiteboard and handing out onboarding materials.

Professional goals. Clean break. New start, Jamie had promised himself.

God clearly had jokes.

---

His phone buzzed in his pocket, snapping him back to reality.

Avery 🐍🐍🐍:

> First day update? Did you die yet?

Jamie stared at the screen for a second, then typed with fingers that still trembled.

Jamie:

> I accidentally slept with my boss. Before I knew he was my boss.

And now he knows I know. And I know he knows.

And he remembers. Everything.

The reply came back instantly.

Avery 🐍🐍🐍:

> BITCH.

Excuse me????

Explain. In caps. Or I’m calling.

Jamie barely had time to groan before the phone started ringing.

He answered with a whisper. “Avery, I—”

“YOU WHAT?” Avery screeched so loud Jamie yanked the phone away from his ear.

“You don’t have to yell,” he muttered.

“I absolutely do. Jamie Reyes, are you out of your soft little mind? Since when do you hook up with randoms?”

Jamie closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. “It wasn’t supposed to be a thing.”

“Was this that night you told me you were going to ‘drink your regrets into submission’? You swore you were going to cry, watch Moulin Rouge, and sleep alone.”

Jamie groaned. “Plans changed.”

“You never have plans. That’s the problem.”

“I thought he was just some guy at a bar, okay? He didn’t say his name. I didn’t either. It was supposed to be anonymous and cathartic.”

Avery’s voice lowered slightly, still scandalized. “And now he’s your what—your supervisor? Manager? Corporate sugar daddy?”

Jamie let his forehead drop to his knees. “Creative Director. Four rungs above me. Maybe five. Definitely high enough to ruin my career with one HR complaint.”

Avery paused dramatically. “So what I’m hearing is—you fumbled into the arms of a tall, emotionally unavailable man in a suit, had sinfully hot hotel sex, and now he’s in charge of your quarterly reviews?”

“Yes.”

“…Hot,” Avery breathed. “Deeply unwise. But so, so hot.”

Jamie exhaled like he was being exorcised. “I want to die.”

“No, you don’t. You want to kiss him again and then throw yourself into a copier so he’ll have to carry you out.”

Jamie groaned louder. “He literally said it wouldn’t happen again.”

“But did he say it like he meant it, or like he was trying to convince himself?”

Jamie opened his mouth.

Paused.

Closed it again.

“…Shut up.”

“Exactly.”

---

They stayed on the phone for another ten minutes—Jamie stress-ranting, Avery asking invasive questions like ‘were there handcuffs involved’ and ‘would you say it was a holy experience or just religious-adjacent?’—before Jamie finally hung up and dragged himself back to his desk.

He sat down, opened a G****e doc, and stared blankly at a mockup for a landing page design he could not mentally engage with.

Across the floor, someone laughed at something Julian said.

Jamie didn’t look up.

Not because he didn’t want to.

But because he wanted to too much.

Every time Julian passed in his peripheral vision, Jamie’s stomach twisted. Not because Julian looked at him—but because he didn’t.

No glances. No lingering eye contact. No indication that Julian had ever touched him, let alone memorized the taste of his mouth.

And somehow, that felt worse than if he had.

---

By the time five-thirty rolled around, Jamie’s nerves were fried. He packed his things slowly, hesitating before shutting down his computer, like Julian might suddenly call him over. Ask to talk. Say something. Anything.

He didn’t.

The man stayed in his glass office, sleeves rolled, eyes fixed on some screen only he could see.

Jamie left without saying goodbye.

But the second he got into the elevator and the doors closed behind him, he pressed his forehead to the mirrored wall and whispered, “This is going to be a problem.”

And he already knew he was right.