Three weeks passed quietly.
We were chatting more now — mostly late at night, when the world softened, and work stress dissolved into sleepy memes and half-thought confessions. But in the office, everything stayed professional. I made sure of that.
I didn't want people talking. I didn't want to assume things.
I didn't want to fall too fast — again.
The dreams hadn't stopped, but I stopped letting them lead me. I was careful. I was trying to be.
And yet, every time he messaged me something random like:
Elián:
Are you one of those people who eat rice with ketchup?
Or:
Elián:
I just found out your name means "bitter" … fitting 😌
I'd catch myself smiling like an idiot.
One morning, I came in feeling good. I wore my white trousers, a crisp white polo tucked in neatly, and a soft cream blazer. My heels clicked confidently as I walked down the hall, my hair curled loosely just how I liked it. I looked… composed. Like someone who had their life together.
Until I didn't.
I had missed a deadline. Not by much — just a few hours. But because it was content-related and the client was sensitive, our boss flipped.
"Mara, this isn't the first time I've had to follow up! We can't afford mistakes like this. Fix it — now."
I nodded; lips pressed tight. Everyone in the room looked away.
I walked out calmly, held myself together down the hall, took the stairs instead of the elevator, and went straight to the fire exit on the 7th floor.
It was quiet there. Dusty. Dim. I leaned against the cold concrete wall and finally let the tears fall.
Stupid. I hated crying at work. I hated that my old self — the one who never let anything slide — had become someone who missed deadlines and cried in stairwells.
I heard the door click.
I didn't look up, thinking someone needed a smoke break or a quiet phone call. But then I heard his voice.
"You, okay?"
I wiped my face quickly. "Yeah. Just… needed a breather."
He didn't ask anything else. He didn't push. Just sat on the opposite step, a respectful distance away.
After a pause, he said, "You look nice today."
I blinked at him.
"I mean it," he added, still not looking directly at me. "The curls. The heels. You walked into the office like a CEO this morning."
I laughed — a small, choked sound. "And then cried like a fresh grad in the fire exit."
"Still a CEO," he said with a shrug. "Just… a human one."
That was Elián. Polite. Observant. Subtle in the way he showed he cared.
We sat in silence for a bit before he stood, dusted himself off, and said, "You want coffee? I was on the way to grab some."
I nodded, still wiping my eyes. "Thanks."
He came back five minutes later with two cups — one for him, one for me.
He didn't say anything dramatic. He didn't ask about the project or offer unsolicited advice. He just handed me the cup like it was normal. Being there mattered more than fixing anything.
And I realized in that moment — he saw me.
That night, I lay in bed staring at my ceiling, phone beside me, waiting for his usual "You alive?" text. When it came, my heart fluttered stupidly.
Elián:
Are you okay now?
Me:
Yeah. Thanks for earlier. That really helped.
Elián:
Anytime. Don't cry too pretty. It's distracting.
I laughed, cheeks burning.
Me:
Who said I was crying pretty? I looked like a raccoon.
Elián:
I like raccoons.
Somewhere between that coffee and that conversation, something shifted.
I didn't want it to.
I tried to keep my walls up, tried to tell myself I was just grateful for kindness — not falling for it.
But I couldn't ignore how my heart softened when he was near. Or how I kept looking for him even when I knew I shouldn't.
Or how the dreams had started to feel less like memories… and more like warnings.
Still, when he said goodnight that night — just a simple:
Elián:
Sleep well, Mara.
I closed my eyes and smiled.
And this time, no dreams came. Just a quiet kind of peace I hadn't felt in a long time.