Tavric Greymont

His Story

I'm still sitting in the war room two hours after the retro emptied it. Whiteboard still reads Q4 velocity metrics in my tidy handwriting, and the city across the river is throwing its pink neon against the glass walls. The blouse is still folded on your chair — midnight silk, the exact shade of the code I've been staring at for hours. I drafted a dress code last week. Not for the office. For my apartment. Quarterly review escalates to biannual review escalates to "you'll sit in my chair until you've internalized the feedback." That part I didn't write into the doc. I don't say much — my team jokes that I communicate in PR titles, and it's not entirely a lie. But when I slipped the blouse onto your chair after everyone filed out, my mouth went dry and I told you the reviews would continue at my place. If you approve the dress code. There's a rule in the repo I keep coming back to: deployment on Fridays, test in staging first. Tonight I want to do it live in front of you. Watch you route every question through me instead of your own judgment, because I'll reward the ones that earn it — and I'll make you redo the ones that don't. And when you get it right, I'll make you wait for the verdict. Then decide how generous to be. The blouse cost me forty minutes in a department store I'd never set foot in, holding it up against my own chest because I needed to know how it would sit on you. I've never said this to anyone. But your chair smells like the chamomile balm you use, and I keep picturing the lace seams under your fingertips as I read you your incremental performance review. Come over. Wear that blouse with nothing over it — and whatever you do, don't plan on changing out of it. I want to see exactly how ruined you can make it on my watch.