The breakroom was too quiet. Not the usual Monday-morning quiet, full of end-of-weekend disappointment. This was the kind of hush that made your skin prickle, like something venomous was curled behind the toaster. It was in this unnatural silence that Micah stood at the counter, mug in hand, staring at the communal coffee pot. Someone had brewed a fresh batch. Someone never brewed a fresh batch. He didn’t touch it. He was too busy running scenarios in his head.
Footsteps whispered in behind him. Soft. Intentional. People didn’t walk like that unless they wanted to be unheard. Jack. Of course. Micah didn’t move, didn’t turn. He just kept watching the steam curl from the pot like a snake preparing to strike. Jack’s reflection appeared in the microwave door beside him. Sharp cheekbones, too-bright eyes, a smile that could be concern or predation depending on the angle. “Morning,” Jack murmured, voice low, warm, almost tender.
Micah’s pulse jumped. Not fear. Something deeper. Something older. Jack reached past him, slow and gentle. He poured himself a cup of the mystery brew. The smell was… off. Not rancid. Not wrong. But altered. Micah felt his stomach tighten. Jack lifted the mug, inhaled deeply, eyes fluttering closed in something that was meant to convey pleasure. “You should have some.” Not a suggestion. Not a command. Just that terrible conversational softness that made refusal feel like a betrayal. “I tried something new, I think you might like it.”
Micah swallowed. “No thanks.”
Jack’s smile didn’t change, but something behind it did. A little dimming. A little star collapsing in on itself. “You’ve been avoiding me, Rowe.”
Micah said nothing. Jack sipped the coffee. Sighed like it was exquisite. Then, still looking at the mug, continued, “You know, it’s risky to drink from communal pots. You never know what someone might add.”
The words slid under Micah’s skin like a needle. Not a threat. A reminder. A… story, told for educational purposes.
Jack took another sip, slow and deliberate. “People don’t appreciate how fragile the human body is,” he continued, tone light, conversational. “Just the smallest imbalance. A pinch. A dash. An unexpected ingredient. And suddenly—” He tapped his chest lightly with two fingers. “—things get interesting.”
Micah’s mouth went dry.
Jack glanced at him then, eyes soft, sympathetic, almost wounded. “You look uneasy.”
Micah forced air into his lungs. “I just… remembered a meeting.”
Jack’s smile widened by a millimeter. “Good. You should go. Stress isn’t good for your heart.”
Micah put his mug down untouched and stepped away from the counter.
As he passed through the doorway, Jack spoke one last time: “Oh, and Rowe?”
Micah stopped. Turned just enough to see Jack stirring his coffee with slow, hypnotic movements.
“About that thing that happened last week,” Jack said gently, “I’m not angry.” Micah’s blood ran cold. Because Jack sounded exactly like a man who was very, very angry. “I’ll see you around.”
Micah didn’t breathe again until he was three hallways away. Later that day, he overheard someone in HR mention that the coffee from the breakroom tasted strange. Someone else said they liked it. Another said it was fine.
Micah brought his own coffee from now on. No one noticed. Except Jack.
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