I spend the rest of the afternoon pretending the lunch didn't happen, pretending I didn't see the man who tore up my resignation letter and fed me in the same week.
The office hums with silence. The kind that has weight.
I type, delete, retype. My eyes keep flicking toward his office. He's there, as always, composed, steady, a human fortress behind glass.
It's almost peaceful until the intercom buzzes.
"Miss Dawson."
I jump. "Yes, sir?"
"Did you send the revised schedule to Harper?"
I check my outbox. "Yes, sir. Fifteen minutes ago."
A pause. Then: "Good. And the report?"
"Halfway done."
"Halfway isn't done, Miss Dawson."
I bite back a sigh. "Then I'll get it done."
"Smart girl."
The line clicks off, leaving my pulse doing cartwheels.
I stare at the intercom, jaw tight. There's something about the way he says things in a smooth, clipped, half-compliment, half-command manner.
I refocus on my screen, finishing the report with unnecessary precision.
When it's ready, I print it and head into his office.
He doesn't look up when I enter. Just gestures with a faint motion of his hand. "Leave it on the desk."
I set it down. "Here's the report."
"Stay."
The word halts me mid-step.
He finally looks up, eyes narrowing slightly as if measuring my reaction. "Why do you always look ready to run?"
"I'm not running."
"Good." His tone softens, but only a fraction. "Sit."
I hesitate before pulling the chair opposite him. The air in here feels heavier somehow, like his presence bends it around him.
He closes the file he was reading and leans back. "Tell me, Miss Dawson. Do you dislike working here that much?"
I blink. "What?"
"You wanted to quit. You still want to, I imagine. So, tell me why."
I shift in the chair. "Does it matter?"
"It does to me."
That throws me. "Why?"
He studies me in silence, eyes steady, unflinching. "Because if I'm the problem, I'd rather know than guess."
I meet his gaze. "You're not the problem."
"Then what is?"
I hesitate. "It's everything. The pace. The pressure. You."
His brows lift. "You just said I'm not the problem."
"You are part of it."
He leans forward slightly, elbows on the desk. "Explain."
I swallow hard. "You're intense, Mr. Steele. You make everyone around you feel like they're one mistake away from being fired."
"Fear is a great motivator."
"It's also exhausting."
The words hang between us. He doesn't argue. Doesn't smirk. Just watches me intently.
Finally, he says, "You're not everyone."
My chest tightens. "Meaning?"
"Meaning you're the only one who talks to me like that and still has a job."
I can't tell if that's supposed to be a compliment or a warning.
I stand, needing air. "If that's all, sir—"
"It's not." His voice lowers. "Sit down."
I freeze, torn between irritation and something warmer I refuse to name.
I'm not a dog and I want to say so with his repetitive 'sit' commands but I clamp my lips shut and I sit.
He looks away for a moment, exhaling through his nose. "You're good at what you do. Better than most who've sat in that chair. You take initiative. You don't wait to be told twice."
"Are you --" I blink. "Are you complimenting me? Again?"
"Don't get used to it."
A reluctant smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it. "I wouldn't dare."
The corner of his mouth lifts faintly, but he hides it by reaching for the report. "Tell finance to give me an updated budget summary by Friday."
And just like that, the hearty conversation's over -- dismissed with a flick of professionalism.
I rise, gathering my dignity. "Yes, sir."
As I turn to leave, he says quietly, "Hazel."
I freeze. He's rarely uses my first name.
But when I look back, he's already focused on his paperwork, like the word slipped out by accident.
But the sound of it echoes in my head long after I leave his office.
Back at my desk, I stare at the computer screen without seeing it.
He's impossible. Arrogant. Infuriating.
And maybe, just maybe, not entirely made of stone.
I sigh, pulling up the
next set of emails.
Because whatever that moment was, it changes nothing.
Except everything feels slightly different now.