Misattribution of Intent
Riley
The apartment was quiet in a way the gym had not been.
Not silent, there was the low hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of traffic filtering through the windows, the soft, familiar creak of the floorboards somewhere down the hall but it was predictable.
Each sound existed within a range Riley could anticipate, could categorise, could allow to fade into the background without effort.
It should have settled her, it normally would.
She always found comfort in familiarity, in her routines and their apartment.
She didn’t often want to go out and try new places, because none would feel as right as home does.
But when she stepped in today, it didn’t seem to create the same relieving response.
Riley closed the door behind her a fraction harder than necessary, the sound sharper than she intended.
Her hand stayed on the handle for a moment too long, her grip tightening slightly before she released it.
The fabric of her leggings still felt wrong against her skin, less invasive now than it had been under the lights, but not ignorable.
It clung in a way that refused to disappear from her awareness.
She didn’t move further into the apartment; she felt as if she couldn’t. Her breathing hadn’t regulated. She could feel it, too fast and shallow, causing her chest and shoulders to feel tight. The added quiet of the apartment didn’t absorb it; it seemed to sit there unresolved.
“Riley?”
Dee’s voice came from the kitchen, closer now.
Footsteps followed a second later, quick yet unhurried.
She appeared in the doorway, already dressed down into her pyjamas.
Riley often wondered how she could feel so comfortable in clothes so professional during the day, and yet wear something so opposite at night.
Her current choice of pyjama was a matching two-piece set, if you could call it that.
The light pink silk shorts were so tiny that Riley imagined Dee could wear them as underwear, the matching top so cropped that she knew Dee currently exposed more flesh than Riley showed in her current two-piece swimsuit.
Dee’s gaze moved once, quick and efficient to Riley’s posture, her hands, her breathing, the stillness that wasn’t stillness, and something in Dee’s expression shifted into pure focus.
“Okay,” she said, already moving. “Nope. We’re not doing this here.”
Riley frowned slightly, the reaction delayed. “Doing wha—”
“Bathroom,” Dee cut in. She reached for Riley’s wrist guiding her down the hallway. “Now. Shower and change out of this fascinating outfit, and then you can talk to me.”
“That is not a logical sequence,” Riley said, even as she allowed herself to be moved. “The information should be relayed while it is—”
“Riley.” Dee stopped just long enough to meet her eyes fully. “Shower first.”
Something in the tone cut through what remained of Riley’s state.
“…Fine,” she said.
Dee nodded once, satisfied, already turning to grab a towel. “Good. I’ll put your pyjamas on your bed. They won’t make you want to crawl out of your own skin.”
Riley didn’t respond, because the statement was accurate.
The bathroom door closed behind her a moment later, the sound softer this time.
Water hit the sink in a steady stream, consistent enough to anchor her.
The imbalance didn’t disappear entirely, but the predictability of it softened the edges enough for her breathing to slowly regulate, the pressure beneath her skin reducing into something she could finally compartmentalise.
By the time she stepped back into the apartment, dressed in her own pyjamas, which consisted of an oversized t-shirt and loose shorts, the environment had reasserted itself as predictable. Far more manageable than before.
Dee was in the living room curled slightly into the corner of the couch with one leg tucked beneath her, her mug balanced loosely in her hands. She looked up as Riley entered, gaze moving over her once again, slower this time seemingly confirming rather than doing another assessment.
Riley exhaled quietly and set herself down on their couch.
It didn’t seem like much, but Riley had chosen this couch, and over time found that the left side of the couch was her comfort spot.
It didn’t make a difference if someone sat in it, it wasn’t like that. But having it settled something in her.
“Tell me what happened, I expect it was bad based on your reaction,” Dee said, her tone light.
Riley’s expression shifted, faintly. “That is not a useful metric, expectation.”
“It is for me,” Dee replied easily, taking a small sip from her mug. Then, as if the conversation had taken a turn Riley hadn’t authorised, she added, “Actually, before we get into this.”
Riley stilled, her hand still resting lightly against the edge of the bench.
“I was working with one of my kids today,” Dee continued, already moving toward the kitchen.
“And they’ve absolutely destroyed my ball of wool.
” There was a faint note of amusement in her voice, threaded through something more deliberate.
“It’s part of a regulation exercise, keeps their hands busy while we talk but they’ve tied it into knots that I cannot undo without losing my mind. ”
She disappeared briefly, then returned holding a soft, tangled ball of wool.
The ball was a hideously unorganised set of bright colours, ranging in a gradient that went green, blue, purple, orange.
It seemed, from appearance, to be knotted in on itself in tight, overlapping loops that resisted immediate logic.
Dee held it out. “Can you try fixing it for me?”
Riley looked at it. Then at her. “Yes, although it may be worth the three dollars for a new ball.”
“Great,” Dee replied, as if that settled something larger than the object itself. “Thank you, Ri.”
Riley moved without resistance this time, sitting with the same discipline she applied to everything else. Dee followed, dropping into the opposite end with far less structure, tucking one leg beneath her as she handed the wool over.
She turned the ball slightly, finding a loop buried beneath two tighter pulls, easing it free just enough to create space. Dee watched her for a second, then took another sip of her drink.
“Alright,” she said, softer now. “How bad was it?”
“The note-taking part was okay, but I was told last minute that I was also starting today,” she said finally, her attention still on the wool. “I was not prepared.”
Dee didn’t interrupt. Riley loosened another knot, slower this time.
“There were too many variables working and introduced simultaneously,” she continued. “Sound without pattern. Movement without logical sequencing. The structure of his programs did not hold long enough to establish consistency.” A pause. “And he kept talking.”
Dee’s mouth twitched, just slightly. “Yeah, that sounds like him... based off your other conversations.”
Riley adjusted her grip again, pulling one thread through with more force than necessary before correcting it.
“He redirected focus inconsistently,” she said. “At times to me. At times to the camera. There was no stable point of reference for me to look at.”
“And that bothered you.”
“Yes.”
Another knot resisted. Riley’s fingers tightened. “He also continued to use a nickname I explicitly asked him not to use.”
Dee let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh. “Oh no.”
“It is inefficient,” Riley said flatly. “It contains the same number of letters as my actual name.”
“That is not the point of a nickname, babe.”
“Then what is the point?”
Dee smiled into her mug. “Annoying you, apparently.”
Riley didn’t respond immediately, because that explanation aligned more cleanly than she would have preferred.
It fit the pattern she had been reconstructing, one that was an intentional, low-level disruption framed as something insignificant.
Her fingers paused briefly against the wool before resuming, sharper now, pulling one knot loose with a strength that bordered on forceful.
“He was not responding to the variables,” Riley said, her gaze fixed on her hands. “He was introducing additional ones.”
Dee tilted her head slightly. “Wait, on purpose?”
“Yes.”
Riley adjusted her grip again, the thread resisting as she pulled it through.
“He maintained contractual compliance,” she continued. “Each change was individually justifiable. There was no point at which I could formally object.” A brief pause. “However, the cumulative effect prevented stabilisation of baseline data.”
Dee frowned slightly. “So he knew what you needed… and made sure you couldn’t get it.”
Riley’s fingers stilled. “Yes.”
She resumed, slower now, more deliberate.
“He altered exercise selection within the same movement patterns,” she said.
“Adjusted rest intervals inconsistently. Redirected attention between myself, the client, and external points, including the camera.” Her jaw tightened slightly.
“None of it was sufficient to breach agreement. All of it interfered with measurement.”
Dee’s expression sharpened. “That’s… ugh. That’s so deliberate.”
Riley didn’t look up. “When I attempted to correct for the inconsistency, he re-framed the issue as individual error,” she said. “He stated I was over-complicating the task.” Another pause. “He did not adjust his behaviour.”
“And when you told him it was too much?”
Riley’s grip tightened again.
“He continued,” she said. The words were flatter this time.
“He reduced the task instead of the input,” she added. “Simplified the instruction while maintaining the same environmental conditions.”
Dee exhaled through her nose, irritation flickering across her face. “Of course he did.”
Riley pulled at another stubborn knot, attempting to undo it. When she couldn’t get it, she moved on to another.
“He commented on my appearance,” she added, the words more clipped now. “In a way that did not relate to the task.”
Dee blinked. “He did what?”