Archie’s POV
Philip catches me in the hallway outside the security briefing room. His expression tells me everything I need to know before he even opens his mouth. This isn't a casual check-in.
"My office," he says, voice clipped. "Now."
I follow him down the corridor, past the cubicles where other security analysts work, into the glass-walled office that overlooks the operations center.
Philip closes the door behind us with deliberate care, then gestures for me to sit.
I don't want to sit. Standing feels like I have more control, more dignity. But I sit anyway because that's what you do when your supervisor uses that tone.
Philip settles behind his desk, pulls out a file, and opens it in front of me. I can see my name on the tab. Performance reviews, incident reports—the documentation of my professional decline laid out in black and white.
"You missed the threat assessment briefing last Tuesday," Philip starts, his voice professionally neutral, that's somehow worse than anger. "The one about the credible threat against the Carmichael family. You were supposed to present the security protocol updates."
"I had it covered," I say, but even I can hear how weak that sounds. "I sent the report via email."
"You sent it three hours after the meeting ended." Philip’s eyes are hard. "Three hours after every other security team had already received the information through proper channels. Do you understand what could have happened if that threat had escalated during those three hours?"
My jaw tightens. "It didn't escalate."
"That's not the point, Archie. You've been with this company for fifteen years. You know better than anyone that security isn't about what did happen—it's about preventing what could happen. And lately, you've been creating gaps. Vulnerabilities."
He flips through the file, pointing to entries I don't need to see to remember.
"You missed the morning briefing on the fourteenth, showed up twenty minutes late to the emergency drill on the twentieth. Last week, you were supposed to review the updated threat assessment for the Hale estate, the family you're personally assigned to, and I had to chase you down for it twice before you finally submitted it."
Each item lands like a physical blow. He's right, I know he's right. But hearing it cataloged like this, seeing the pattern of my failures documented with dates and times, makes it impossible to dismiss.
"The Hale estate is our highest-profile client. Three children, including a newborn. A CEO's wife who runs a major company."
Philip continues.
"The kind of family that attracts attention—the wrong kind of attention. Any lapse in security could be catastrophic. We can't afford mistakes there, Archie. And right now, you're making them."
My hands clench on the armrests. "Things at home have been difficult."
The excuse dies in my throat because it sounds hollow even to me. Things at home. What things? Maya's loving and supportive. My apartment is comfortable. I'm not dealing with illness or financial crisis or any of the legitimate emergencies that would excuse professional failure.
I'm just distracted by a woman I'm falling for. By memories of my dead brother that won't stay buried. By a past that keeps resurfacing no matter how many years I put between myself and who I used to be.
Philip’s expression softens slightly, but his voice stays firm.
"Look, I'm not unsympathetic. Everyone goes through rough patches. But this is a warning, Archie. You need to get your head together, fast. I need the security professional I hired fifteen years ago, not whoever's been showing up lately."
The dismissal is clear. I stand, mumble something about understanding, and walk out of his office feeling like I've been stripped of my skin.
The rest of the workday passes in a fog. I sit at my desk reviewing security protocols I could recite in my sleep, my mind simultaneously racing and blank. This job has defined me since I was twenty-three years old.
Fresh out of the Marines, drowning in grief over Dylan, desperate for purpose and structure. Security work gave me both. Gave me a reason to wake up every morning, a mission that mattered, an identity beyond "the kid whose brother killed himself."
Fifteen years of building a reputation, earning trust, becoming someone people relied on. And now I'm the liability, the weak link. The security professional who can't secure his own focus long enough to do his job properly.
My phone buzzes. A text from Maya: "Dinner at your place tonight? I'll bring wine."
The message should make me smile. Instead, it just reminds me of another thing I'm failing at—keeping my personal life separate from work, maintaining the professional boundaries that used to come so naturally.
I text back: "Sure. See you at seven."
The drive home takes longer than usual. Traffic, or maybe I'm just driving slower, dreading the conversation I need to have. Maya will ask about my day. She always asks. And I'll have to tell her that I'm screwing up the one thing I've been good at for fifteen years.
She's already at my apartment when I arrive, letting herself in with the spare key I gave her three weeks ago. The domesticity of it—Maya in my kitchen, opening my wine, comfortable in my space—should feel good. Does feel good. But it's also terrifying in ways I can't articulate.
"Hey," she says, crossing to kiss me. Then she pulls back, studies my face. "What's wrong?"
I could lie. Should lie, maybe. Keep this separate, maintain the boundary between work stress and relationship peace. But I'm too tired to construct a convincing story.
"Work," I say, loosening my tie as I sink onto the couch. "My supervisor pulled me aside today. There have been complaints about my performance. Missing meetings, being distracted, nearly missing a critical threat assessment last week."
Maya sits beside me, concern clear in her eyes. "What did he say?"
"That it's a warning. Not termination, but I need to get my act together. This job has been my entire identity for fifteen years, Maya. After Dylan died, I was a mess."
I lean my head back against the cushions, staring at the ceiling.
"No direction, no purpose, just drowning in guilt and grief. Security work saved me, gave me something to focus on, a way to protect people, to matter. And now I'm losing it because I can't keep my head in the game."
"You're not losing it," Maya says firmly. Her hand finds mine, squeezes. "You're going through a rough patch, that's not the same thing. You'll figure it out. We'll figure it out."
The certainty in her voice makes something in my chest loosen slightly. She says "we" like it's automatic, like my problems are automatically hers too.
"I don't know how to fix this," I admit quietly. "Every time I try to focus at work, my mind goes somewhere else. I catch myself thinking about you, about us, about my mother showing up demanding money, about Vincent and his threats…"
I stop, realizing I'm listing problems like they're evidence of my own inadequacy. "I used to be better than this."
Maya shifts closer, her hand moving to cup my face. "You're being too hard on yourself. You're dealing with a lot right now. Anyone would be distracted."
"Other people manage." The words come out bitter. "Other people don't nearly miss threat assessments because they're daydreaming."
"Other people aren't you." Maya's thumb strokes my cheekbone. "You set impossible standards for yourself, Archie. Have since you were nineteen, probably. Trying to make up for Dylan, trying to be perfect enough that you don't lose anyone else."
The observation lands too close to truth. I want to argue, but the words won't come.
Maya's expression shifts. The concern in her eyes gives way to something playful, mischievous. Her lips curve into a small smile.
"You know what?" she says, voice dropping lower. "I know for sure a way to help you clear your head of thoughts."
Before I can respond, she slides off the couch gracefully. Her knees hit the floor between mine, hands coming to rest on my thighs. She looks up at me through her lashes, still smiling that knowing smile.
"Let me help you forget about work for a while," she murmurs.