Page 24 of Crawl for Me

Sable

“ P eace offering,” Sam declares, popping up over my partition like a deranged meerkat. A cinnamon twist lands dead center on my keyboard, sugar snowing into the keys.

I pluck it up delicately and set it on the side, brushing the dust off my fingers. “Is this because you turned my couch into a drool swamp?”

“Allegedly.” He slurps his coffee obnoxiously, then rests his chin on the partition, grin spreading. “Sooo… kinda wild you never mentioned Noah lives in your building.”

My brow tips up. “Is it?”

“Uh, yeah. Pretty big detail, Sable. You could’ve told me he was your neighbor. That’s interesting intel.”

“Could have,” I agree, swiveling back to the monitor. “Didn’t. Didn’t feel like giving my hallway a press release. And if we’re talking about interesting—What’s interesting is that you survived that much tequila.”

His hand snakes over the partition to poke me in the temple. “You’re dodging.”

I swat him away. “You’re projecting.”

He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Because I found a tie and a very not-chocolate wrapper in your bed, and now I know tall-dark-and-boss-man lives down the hall. Which means, if A and B exist, C is basically inevitable. Or…” he waggles his brows. “Maybe it already happened.”

Oh, here we go. Time to buckle up.

I already overheard him and Eleanor talking before I found Noah this morning. I need to lock this shit down right now before it spirals into an inevitable shit-storm of the Sam variety.

I turn slowly, pinning him with a look so flat it could level buildings. “If A and B exist, C is that you were paralytic, and I needed a neighbor to help haul your corpse up two flights of stairs. Beginning, middle, end.”

A triumphant grin spreads across his face. “So he did carry me?”

“He helped me lift you,” I correct sweetly. “Because dead weight is heavy. Congratulations—you’ve got a promising career as ballast.”

He opens his mouth for another victory lap, but there is no way I’m letting him take it.

“Stop,” I say, raising my palm. “No more dot-connecting on my time.”

He blinks. “Sable, I’m just?—”

“You’re not ‘just’ anything. You’re building a conspiracy out of two facts and your hangover.” I swivel the chair fully. “If you’re my friend, you don’t turn my address into office trivia.”

He huffs, folding his arms across his chest. “Come on. Tie. Wrapper. Same building. It’s— come on —you can’t blame me for wanting to get all over that.”

I lean forward, lowering my voice. “Watch your volume. You’re not ‘getting all over’ anything—you’re shouting a story that could put me out of a job. That’s not curiosity, that’s carelessness with my life.”

He shakes his head quickly. “That’s not—I wasn’t?—”

“Then don’t.” I sit back, rapping a knuckle on my desk. “I’m telling you, Sam. Stop. Now.”

He raises his hands in surrender, eyes wide. “Alright, gotcha. I’m stopping.”

Sure you are.

The second he disappears back below the partition, a wave of nausea curls through my stomach, bile and battery acid searing up my throat.

Breathe. Don’t vomit. Don’t combust. Don’t die.

I rise from my chair calmly, and weave through the bullpen with my chin held high and my face neutral, already drafting both my resignation and obituary.

The second I make it into the bathroom, I lock myself in a stall and sit down on the toilet seat, cold porcelain biting through my skirt.

Then I pull out my phone and dim the screen until it’s barely visible — like I’m about to search how to hide a body, instead of ‘ how to fuck the senior account lead and get away with it .’

The corporate-blue PDF opens up on my screen, and I scroll.

3.4 Romantic/sexual relationships between supervisory and subordinate employees are prohibited.

3.4(a) Such relationships may result in corrective action, up to and including termination.

Supervisory. Subordinate.

Noah. Me.

3.5 Conflicts of interest: Employees must avoid even the appearance of favoritism or undue influence.

I breathe out through my nose, trying to blink back my own bullshit. My thumbs are shaking, so I pin one against the edge of the case until it steadies, and scroll some more, just for extra-added torture.

3.6 Workplace conduct: No physical displays on company property or at company events. Supervisor–direct report 1:1s must be business-related; keep visible where possible and calendar private meetings.

3.7 Social media: Avoid content that could create the appearance of favoritism or an internal relationship (e.g., intimate photos, suggestive captions.) Neutral, work-related recognition is fine when professional and inclusive.

3.8 Gifts anything else needs HR approval.

You wanted rules, Sable. Here they are. Signed, sealed, published in PDF, and boring enough to change your life.

I sigh and rub at the bridge of my nose.

It isn’t like I didn’t know this existed.

Of course I did. We all joked about it during onboarding—don’t bang up the chain, don’t bang down the chain.

Easy. And I’ve had the mental threat of HR hanging over my ass since the day I decided to open my legs in Noah’s passenger seat.

But the words in black and white still punch like a body check to the labia.

All I can think about is Sam’s grin and Eleanor’s giggle, my life at the brink of being run through the office grapevine like it’s a juicer. Is nothing sacred anymore, or did we auction that off with the printer toner?

I scroll harder than necessary, thumb skidding across the screen.

Where’s the clause for best friends with sieve mouths ?

3.point-whatever: Employees shall refrain from broadcasting their colleagues’ addresses and/or elevator habits to the entire bullpen.

3.point-more: If your info came with “you didn’t hear this from me,” it dies there. 3.point-extra: shut up!

I lock my phone and drop my head into my hands.

That’s it, then. I’m fucked.

My few weeks of Noah Calloway begging to make me feel good—gone. Done. Dead in the water.

We said we’d fix it if it started to cost us. And I guess it’s costing us.

And I can’t even be mad. We called it from the start—clean lines, no drama. Keep the job. Keep it quiet. Keep it contained .

But now I’m sitting in a bathroom stall like a teenager with a crush and a crisis, mourning something that technically never even started, all because I turned into a horny little rat-ling, and decided it would be the best idea ever to spread my legs for the one person who should’ve been off-limits from the start.