Over the Threshold

Roy wasn't technically working late. Not in the way his timesheet would record, at least. The rest of the team had packed up at five sharp, tossing him sympathetic looks as they slipped out one by one. He'd waved them off, told them he just needed to finish a report, nothing serious.

A lie, but a comfortable one.

The real work began after the office went quiet. He closed his door, pulled the blinds, and opened the secret document file he'd created that morning. The bus book. He still hated that name, dark humour was a terrible coping skill, but it fit.

How to run the department if Roy were suddenly gone. Hit by a bus. Blackmailed into leaving.

Which, if Tom got his way, would amount to the same thing.

Roy typed quickly, the way he always did when his brain outran his hands. Notes about vendor processes. Software quirks. The unspoken etiquette of scheduling deliveries with the "good" dispatcher at the warehouse, and how to avoid the one who lost paperwork like it was a hobby. All the tiny details that made the whole place run, the things he'd learned by listening and watching rather than being told.

He should be planning his defence, or calling a lawyer, or (God forbid!) begging. Instead, he was building his replacement.

Protecting them. Protecting the work.

Let Tom have his petty victory. Roy could carry that. The others, the coworkers Roy had come to care about, shouldn't have to. They had nothing to do with whatever petty vendetta Tom was carrying out on Roy. If there was a way to keep them safe, Roy would take it.

By the time he pushed away from his computer, the sky had gone pink and his stomach felt like it was folding in on itself. Grabbing his jacket, he flicked off the lights and trudged to the parking lot. He tried not to think about Claire the whole drive home, which of course meant he thought about nothing else.

He had so many questions.

How was he supposed to go out with Claire? And if he did, what were the expectations? Was it supposed to be a date? Was it an errand? Were they really shopping for a present? By the picture she'd texted, he suspected not. He suspected that she had expectations.

Expectations that he wasn't sure he'd be able to meet.

Besides, Roy, for the first time in his life, had a girlfriend. A real, honest to Betsy girlfriend. Sure, she'd come to him through magical manipulation, not being given a choice in the relationship, but Elaine didn't seem to mind. In fact, she seemed to love him. And, he suspected, he thought he might love her right back. At least a little.

So what did he need with the complication of a second girlfriend? Especially Claire, the daughter of the first!

He parked in his usual spot outside his building, and for a moment just sat there, gripping the steering wheel. Sun warm through the windshield. A lazy breeze sweeping across the lot. Spring trying its best to be beautiful. Elaine would notice that sort of thing, he was sure of it. She was everything Roy was not: beautiful, athletic, adventurous. The way she saw the world was intoxicating for him. The very idea that he was with a woman like her made him feel giddy with excitement, a door of possibilities he could never have imagined, pried open by one of the most gorgeous women he'd ever met. If she were here, he was sure she'd have them walking the river path hands linked, her stride effortless and his slightly ridiculous.

But she wasn't there. He was alone, facing down the barrel of an evening that he was worried he might regret. He took a breath, opened the door, and climbed the stairs to his apartment.

And stopped cold.

Claire stood in the hallway, right outside his door like she'd come packaged with the mail.

Brown dress with pink polka dots, swingy and sunny and a little retro, and absolutely engineered to showcase her body. He tried not to stare and failed immediately.

High heels. Glowing skin. Hair glossy and perfect.

She was stunning. Too stunning. And so heartbreakingly familiar that for a split second, the late-afternoon light had him seeing Elaine in her twenties.

She lifted a paper bag and grinned. "I figured you'd be starving. You didn't text back, so I took initiative."

The smell of sesame and ginger hit him. His empty stomach stomped its approval.

"I can't let my big strong man start his evening on an empty stomach," she added, voice lilting with playful certainty.

His mouth opened, closed, tried again. "Uh... hey. Hi. I... yeah. Food is good. Thanks."

Smooth. Incredible. A real ladies' man.

He got to his door. She trailed right behind him, and when he reached for his keys she leaned in and stole a kiss. Soft. Sweet. Automatic. Too easy.

If he closed his eyes, he could pretend nothing about it was wrong. He didn't, of course. He smiled instead, awkward and apologetic and uncertain all at once, and gently backed out of it.

Claire didn't look hurt. If anything, she looked amused. Certain. Like she knew his hesitation was temporary.

Unlocking the door, he pushed it open and stepped inside.

She didn't move. Just stood there, one heel tipped forward, lips curved into that wicked little smirk she'd inherited from no one but her mother.

"Well?" she said, eyebrows arching. "Aren't you going to carry me over the threshold?"