After the Dark

The scent of dark roast coffee and steamed oat milk was the official perfume of Casey’s mornings. It hung in the air at “The Daily Grind,” a comforting constant in the ever-shifting chaos of the city. Outside the wide plate-glass window, taxis blared and pedestrians swarmed the sidewalks, a river of humanity flowing toward another Tuesday. Inside, however, at their small table tucked into a corner, the world narrowed to the space between her and Riley.

“You’re staring,” Riley said, not looking up from his phone. A small smile played on his lips. “Is there foam on my nose?”

Casey rolled her eyes, taking a slow sip of her latte. “I’m not staring. I’m contemplating the existential dread of another week chained to a desk, and your face just happens to be in my line of sight.”

He finally looked up, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “Ouch. And here I thought my face was a beacon of hope in your dreary world.” He leaned forward, propping his chin on his hand. “Besides, you love your job. You get to color-code things. It’s your version of nirvana.”

“It’s not nirvana, it’s organizational excellence,” she retorted, the familiar rhythm of their banter settling over her like a warm blanket. “Something you wouldn’t understand, Mr. ‘My-Filing-System-Is-A-Pile.’”

“It’s an organic system,” he corrected, taking a large gulp of his black coffee. “It has layers. Like an onion. Or a really complex lasagna.”

Casey laughed, a genuine sound that felt out of place among the clatter of porcelain and the hiss of the espresso machine. This was their ritual. Fifteen minutes of caffeinated normalcy before diving into the corporate shark tank. For the past five years, since they’d started at the same marketing firm on the same day, this table had been their sanctuary.

Riley slid his phone across the table, showing her a picture of a golden retriever puppy tangled in a string of Christmas lights. “Saw this and thought of you.”

She frowned at the screen. “Because I’m cute and prone to getting myself into ridiculous situations I can’t get out of?”

“No,” he said, his expression turning serious for a moment as his gaze softened. “Because you have a deep, abiding love for things that are chaotic but ultimately harmless.” He reclaimed his phone, his thumb swiping away the image. The moment passed, but the warmth of it lingered. It was in these small, unguarded flashes that Casey felt the true depth of their friendship—a solid, unshakeable thing in a city built on transience. He saw her, really saw her, in a way no one else ever had.

“You’re a sap,” she said, her voice softer than she intended.

“Only before 9 a.m.,” he shot back easily. He glanced at his watch, the easy smile returning. “Speaking of which, the spreadsheets are calling. We should probably go make the magic happen.”

Casey sighed, draining the last of her latte and placing the heavy ceramic mug back on its saucer with a soft click. The thought of the office, of the endless emails and the fluorescent lights, felt like a harsh intrusion on their quiet corner of the world. “Fine. But if my inbox has more than fifty new emails, I’m blaming you.”

“Fair enough,” Riley said, standing and shrugging on his jacket. “My shoulders are broad. They can take it.” He waited for her to gather her things, his presence a steady, comforting weight beside her as they prepared to step back into the river of the city.

The familiar hum of the office was a stark contrast to the cozy din of the coffee shop. Fluorescent lights cast a sterile glow over the rows of cubicles, and the air tasted of recycled air and the faint, metallic scent of overworked computers. Casey slid into her ergonomic chair, the comfortable bubble she and Riley had occupied just moments before bursting with the first ping of an incoming email. She took a deep breath, mentally preparing to dive into the digital deluge.

She worked through the first dozen messages with practiced efficiency—approvals, status updates, meeting requests. It was all part of the routine, the organizational excellence she secretly enjoyed. Then she saw the subject line: “Get Ready! The Annual Starlight Gala is Almost Here!”

Casey clicked it open. An animated GIF of exploding champagne corks filled the top of the message. She scrolled past the details about the venue, the dress code, and the charity auction, her eyes scanning for the important part: the RSVP link. But before she got there, she saw a new section added this year: “A Special Welcome to Our Partners from Sterling Ventures!”

Her stomach tightened. Sterling Ventures was the firm her ex-boyfriend, Mark, had moved to after their spectacularly messy breakup two years ago. Her fingers hesitated over the mousepad. She told herself it was a big company, that the chances of him being one of the handful of invited representatives were slim. She was being paranoid.

But then she saw the list of names.

William Croft. Ananya Sharma. David Chen. Mark Thorne.

The name seemed to leap off the screen, bold and unavoidable. Mark Thorne. A cold shock radiated from the center of her chest, spreading through her limbs until her fingertips felt numb. She felt the blood drain from her face, a sudden, sick lurch in her gut as if the elevator she was in had just dropped ten floors. She read the name again, and then a third time, but it didn't change. He was coming.

The carefully constructed walls she’d built around that part of her life crumbled instantly. Memories flooded in, sharp and unwelcome: Mark’s charming smile that he used like a weapon, the casual way he’d dismissed her ambitions, the public humiliation of their last fight at a friend’s party where he’d twisted her words until everyone was looking at her with pity. He had a talent for making her feel small and foolish, and the thought of facing him in a room full of her colleagues, of having to endure his condescending gaze and feigned politeness, was suffocating.

Her breath hitched. The office, which had felt mundane moments before, now felt like a glass cage. Everyone would see him. They’d see them. People knew they had dated; their relationship had been office gossip for the better part of a year. They would watch. They would whisper. And Mark would thrive on it. He would perform, turning on the charisma, and she would be left feeling exposed and raw.

Her hand trembled as she reached for her mug, forgetting it was empty. The ceramic was cool against her skin. She stared blankly at her monitor, the cheerful champagne GIF mocking her rising panic. The letters of Mark’s name blurred together, a black mark on an otherwise bright screen. The room felt too warm, her collar too tight. All she could think about was his face, that easy, handsome smile he would flash her, the one that always came right before he said something designed to cut her to the bone. She had to see him. There was no way out of it.

A sharp, staccato rhythm of typing came from Riley’s cubicle, a sound so familiar Casey usually tuned it out completely. But now, it was gone. The sudden silence was what broke her trance. She looked up from her screen to see him standing at the edge of her workspace, his brow furrowed with concern.

“Everything okay over there?” he asked, his voice low, meant only for her. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

Casey forced a weak smile that felt brittle and foreign on her lips. “Worse. An email from HR.” She tried for levity, for their usual banter, but the words came out thin and shaky.

Riley wasn't buying it. He moved closer, leaning a hip against the edge of her desk, effectively creating a barrier between her and the rest of the office. His presence was a solid, comforting weight in her periphery. “Come on, Case. I know your 'HR email' face. That involves an eye roll and a heavy sigh. This is different. You’re completely pale.”

She swallowed, the lump in her throat feeling like a stone. She couldn’t bring herself to say the name out loud. It felt like invoking a demon. Instead, she just tapped a trembling finger on her monitor.

Riley leaned in, his arm brushing against hers as he angled his head to read the screen. His scent, a faint mix of his coffee and a clean, subtle cologne, filled her senses, a stark contrast to the cold panic icing her veins. He was silent for a moment as he scanned the email, his eyes finding the guest list. She watched his jaw tighten, a muscle flexing in his cheek. His whole posture shifted, his relaxed lean turning into something more rigid, more protective.

“Son of a bitch,” he breathed, the words a low growl. He straightened up, his blue eyes locking onto hers, and all the teasing warmth was gone, replaced by a fierce, protective anger on her behalf. “Of all the gin joints in all the towns…”

“He’s going to be there,” she whispered, the admission making it horribly real. “Riley, I… I can’t.” The thought of Mark’s smug face, of his patronizing tone, made her want to crawl out of her own skin.

“Hey.” Riley’s voice was firm, cutting through the noise in her head. He crouched down so he was at her eye level, forcing her to look at him. “Yes, you can. Listen to me. This is not two years ago. You are not the person he tried to make you feel you were.” His gaze was intense, unwavering. “You’re the smartest person in our department. You run multi-million dollar campaigns and you do it without breaking a sweat. You survived that asshole, and you didn’t just survive, you thrived. He’s the ghost, Casey. Not you.”

Her vision blurred with unshed tears. She hated how much power this still had over her, how one name on a list could unravel her so completely.

“He doesn’t get to ruin this for you,” Riley continued, his voice softening slightly but losing none of its conviction. “He doesn’t get to make you feel small ever again. I won’t let him.” He reached out, his hand covering hers where it rested on the mousepad. His touch was warm and steady, a lifeline. “I’ll be there. The whole night. If he even looks at you funny, I’ll spill a full tray of champagne on his stupidly expensive shoes. I swear to God.”

A shaky laugh escaped her, half-sob, half-amusement. The image was so vivid, so quintessentially Riley, that it managed to pierce through her panic.

“I’m serious,” he said, a ghost of a smile touching his lips, though his eyes remained serious. “You are not facing him alone. You’ve got me. Always. That’s the deal, right?”

She nodded, squeezing his hand. His friendship was the bedrock of her life in this city, the one constant she could always count on. His unwavering support was a shield, and as she looked into his determined face, she felt a tiny spark of her own strength returning. The dread was still there, a cold knot in her stomach, but it was no longer all-consuming. She wasn't alone in the glass cage. Riley was in there with her.

His words were an anchor, and she clung to them for the rest of the afternoon. She tried to work, to lose herself in spreadsheets and project timelines, but Mark’s name was a ghost haunting the periphery of her vision. Every time she looked up from her screen, she half-expected to see his smug face. The knot in her stomach remained, tight and cold. Riley’s promise was a comfort, a significant one, but as the hours ticked by, a new kind of anxiety began to fester.

She knew Mark. He was a master of social manipulation. He would see Riley standing with her, read him as a loyal friend, and then find a way to undermine it. He’d pull her aside for a “private word,” corner her by the bar, or use his practiced charm to disarm Riley and then isolate her. Just having a friend there wouldn’t be enough. Mark wouldn’t see a protector; he’d see an obstacle to be sidestepped. He needed to see a wall. An impenetrable one.

The thought struck her with the force of a physical blow as she was staring at the clock, watching the minute hand crawl towards five. A date. If she had a date, a partner, someone whose claim to her time and attention was socially recognized and respected, Mark wouldn't be able to touch her. He wouldn’t dare. It would be a public declaration that she had moved on, that she was happy, that he had zero power over her. The idea was insane. It was desperate. And it was, she realized with a dizzying certainty, perfect.

There was only one person she could possibly ask.

Her heart started to hammer against her ribs, a frantic, panicked rhythm. She glanced over the low wall of her cubicle. Riley was still at his desk, but he was starting to pack his bag, sliding his laptop into its sleeve. It was now or never.

Pushing her chair back so fast it squeaked in protest, she practically ran the few steps to his desk, stopping abruptly in front of him. He looked up, a surprised but warm smile on his face. "Whoa, fire drill?"

“No, I—wait,” she said, catching her breath. Her mind was a chaotic jumble of justifications and pre-rehearsed phrases. She had to make it sound casual. Logical. Not like the act of sheer desperation it was.

“Casey?” His smile faded, replaced by the same concern from that morning. “You okay?”

“Yes. No. Maybe.” She took a deep breath, forcing herself to slow down. “I’ve been thinking about the gala. And about what you said.”

He waited, his full attention on her. “And?”

“And you’re right. I can’t let him win. I can’t hide. But I also know him, Riley. I know how he operates. He’ll try to get me alone, say something awful, and make a scene if I brush him off. He feeds on that stuff.”

Riley’s expression hardened. “I told you, I’ll be there. I won’t leave your side.”

“I know, and I’m so grateful for that, I really am. But that’s not enough of a… a deterrent.” The word felt clinical and strange on her tongue. “He needs to see that I’m completely unavailable. That I’m not just there with a friend, but that I’m… with someone.”

The air between them shifted. Riley’s eyes searched hers, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. He was starting to understand where this was going.

The words tumbled out of her before she could lose her nerve, a rushed, jumbled plea. “So, I have a favor to ask. A huge, probably insane favor. And you can totally say no, no pressure, seriously, I’ll understand.” She took another shaky breath. “Will you… will you go with me? To the gala? Not just as my friend, but as my date? A fake date, obviously,” she added quickly, waving her hands as if to dispel any real romantic notion. “Just for the night. A buffer. A human shield, basically. We just have to act like a couple for a few hours. It’s just a charade. A simple favor.”

She stopped, her chest heaving, the words hanging in the quiet office air between them. She held his gaze, her heart pounding a desperate plea against her ribs. She had laid her panic bare, reframing it as a strategy, a calculated move. But they both knew what it really was: a frantic S.O.S. from a sinking ship, and he was the only lifeline she could think to grab.