Leah stepped into the office kitchen, the aroma of coffee grounding her before the chaos of spreadsheets and schedules could pull her under. The morning light hit the countertops at a slant, illuminating tiny dust motes drifting in the air.
She poured her coffee, careful not to spill, when the door creaked behind her.
"Morning."
Adrian. He was leaning casually against the counter, a travel mug in hand, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the line of his forearm. The office felt quieter with him there, even if only by a fraction.
"Morning," she replied, trying to keep her voice even.
He took a sip, then watched her over the rim of his mug. There was something in the way he observed—quiet, deliberate, almost imperceptible—but it made her shoulders tighten, a small shiver running down her spine.
"You didn't grab breakfast?" he asked, voice low, calm.
"I wasn't hungry," she said.
He tilted his head slightly, just enough for sunlight to catch the edge of his jaw. Leah blinked, quickly looking away at the counter, at the steam rising from her cup. Her fingers gripped the mug tighter than necessary.
For a moment, the kitchen held only the hiss of the coffee machine, the tick of the clock, and the faint brushing of their parallel breaths. Then, as if by instinct, Adrian stepped closer to grab a sugar packet. Their hands brushed—not enough to linger, just a fleeting contact—but Leah felt a spark of awareness she couldn't name.
"Sorry," he said, eyes meeting hers for a heartbeat longer than needed. Just a fraction of gray under the kitchen light. Then he straightened, moving back, as if a line had been carefully drawn and respected.
"It's fine," she whispered, cheeks warming. She shook her head slightly, trying to dismiss the sudden electricity in the tiny space between them.
He glanced at his watch, then at her, his attention shifting seamlessly back to the practical. "You have the preliminary figures for the audit?"
Leah nodded, fumbling slightly with her mug. "Yes, I… I'll have them on your desk in an hour."
"Good." His voice was neutral, professional, yet there was a weight behind the word. A silent acknowledgment that he noticed her effort, her presence, and—though he would never say it aloud—her resilience.
She wanted to linger, to say something, anything, but the spell broke as the elevator dinged in the lobby. Other employees began to filter in, footsteps echoing down the hall. Reality returned in a rush: the bustling office, the murmurs, the schedules that wouldn't wait.
"Coffee?" she asked, holding her mug out slightly, almost as an offering to the calm that had passed between them.
He shook his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips—just enough to be human, not enough to cross the line. "Later."
And just like that, he was gone, leaving Leah with the steam rising from her mug, her heartbeat slightly faster than before, and a sense that something unspoken had passed in the briefest of moments.
Sitting at her desk, she stared at the audit sheets. Numbers blurred. Her mind replayed the brush of his hand, the look in his eyes, the quiet control that both unnerved and anchored her.
Across the office, Adrian returned to his own work, thoughts circling back to that moment in the kitchen. Noticing her, acknowledging her, respecting the boundary—all at once. His pen hovered over reports longer than necessary, as if the memory of her glance had left an imprint that work alone could not erase.
Outside, the city moved on—lights, traffic, life continuing—but in the office, a subtle tension lingered. Unspoken. Unexplored. Yet undeniable.
Moments like these, Leah realized, were dangerous. Not because of attraction, not yet, but because they revealed more than either of them intended. A silent acknowledgment of presence, of awareness, of something… fleeting.
And sometimes, that was enough to make the hours that followed feel heavier, charged, and alive.