Lara had a way of making silence feel sacred.
That night when I sat across from her, listening to her ramble about dropping an entire tray of glasses in school, it wasn't the story that stayed with me.
It was the way she told it. Lightly. Without needing me to respond. No probing questions. No expectations.
And then I laughed.
Not a polite chuckle.
Not the performative kind I used with shareholders.
A real laugh. The kind that escaped before I had a chance to question it.
She stared at me for a second like she didn't expect me to be capable of it.
Hell, I didn't either.
I stayed.
That night, in that chair by her window, I didn't leave when the story ended.
I watched the way her face softened in the moonlight. The way she folded her legs beneath her like she'd done it a thousand times in that room. As if she belonged there.
She did.
It scared me how natural that felt.
Not because I didn't want it—because I did.
But because I didn't know what to do with something that didn't ask me to be anything other than present.
The next morning, I joined her for breakfast again.
She didn't make a big deal out of it. Just offered me a quiet smile when I handed her the sugar for her tea. She always used half a spoon. No more, no less.
It amazed me, the tiny things I was learning about her.
How she stirred three times. Never four.
How she chewed on her lip when reading.
How she sat with her shoulders slightly hunched, like she was always bracing for something—even peace.
Later that afternoon, Mira informed me there had been an incident at the front gate.
I was in the middle of reviewing a supplier contract when she said, "A man came by. Said he was Mrs. Calein's ex-boyfriend."
I felt something cold coil in my stomach.
"Did he see her?"
Mira hesitated. "Yes, sir. Briefly. She sent him away."
I said nothing. Just nodded and returned to the contract.
But I wasn't reading anymore.
I was replaying the word: boyfriend.
That night, I didn't ask her about it.
She seemed distant. Not upset. Just quieter than usual.
I didn't press. I didn't want to push her.
Not because I didn't care—but because I knew what it felt like to be prodded for emotions when you barely understood them yourself.
So I waited.
And two days later, she told me.
Evan. That was his name.
I listened.
Every word. Every pause.
"Did you love him?" I asked, careful to keep my voice even.
She looked surprised. "I wanted to."
My jaw tensed. "Did he love you?"
"Not enough," she said. "Not the way I needed."
I nodded.
"I'm glad he's gone," I said simply.
Her brow furrowed. "You are?"
I met her eyes. "I don't like people who waste good things."
Her breath caught a little.
And I almost reached for her hand.
Almost.
But instead, I looked away.
Because I didn't trust myself to mean what she needed—yet.
Later that night, I was at my desk going over a quarterly loss report when there was a knock on my door.
I knew it was her before I even opened it.
She stood there like she'd second-guessed the decision a dozen times already.
She didn't speak.
Neither did I.
I just stepped aside.
She entered without hesitation.
Didn't ask for anything.
Didn't expect anything.
Just sat on the edge of my couch and pulled her knees to her chest like she belonged there.
And suddenly, my office felt more like a home than it ever had.
We didn't talk much.
She watched me work. I offered her a blanket without words.
She didn't touch me.
I didn't ask her to.
But for the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to let someone in without losing myself.
It didn't require grand gestures.
Just permission.
To exist in the same space.
Quietly.
Honestly.
Unspoken.