The Fox in the Glass

Mara had been walking through life like a zombie for six months, since the promotion that came with a corner office and a soul she could feel eroding. The cable bill sat unpaid on her counter—she'd cut the cord three weeks ago, desperate for silence, but the world found other ways in.

Her golden retriever, Cooper, watched from the couch as she paced the living room at 11 PM, phone in hand. The screen lit up with another message from Ethan: *You at the office tomorrow? We should grab coffee.*

Ethan was a fox—clever, beautiful, dangerous. He'd smile with those amber eyes and somehow you'd find yourself agreeing to things you'd sworn you wouldn't. He'd maneuvered his way into her department, then her project, then her head. Now he was angled for her position, everyone knew it, but he still wanted to grab coffee.

She thought about Sunday mornings with her father, baseball on the radio, the way he'd explain pitching strategies like they were life lessons. *Control the zone, Mara. Don't swing at everything just because it comes at you fast.*

The baseball metaphor made her smile, bitter and thin. She'd been swinging at everything Ethan threw. Every "accidental" touch, every lingering look, every late-night brainstorming session that somehow always ended with him walking away with her ideas.

Cooper whined, pressing his nose into her palm. The simple, uncomplicated love of a dog—that was something Ethan could never understand, because everything with him was transactional. Even affection was a negotiating tactic.

She typed: *No coffee.*

Then: *But I'll be at the meeting where you present my quarterly strategy deck. Looking forward to seeing how you make it your own.*

Her finger hovered over send. The zombie in her stirred, remembering what it felt like to have teeth.

Outside, the neighbor's security light flickered—a cable loose somewhere, casting intermittent shadows against her window. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. Not Cooper. He was already asleep, trusting as always.

Mara pressed send, then turned off her phone.

The fox would still be there tomorrow. But maybe, just maybe, she'd finally learned to stop swinging at everything in the strike zone.