Leah's office chair creaked under her as she leaned back, staring at the glowing screen. The spreadsheet she had been working on for hours blurred into a sea of numbers. Her eyes were tired, but the work wasn't the reason her chest felt tight.
It was the quiet. The kind of quiet that stretched too long, where each tick of the clock seemed louder than the last. And then there was the lingering memory of Adrian's glance from earlier—brief, measured, and somehow unsettling.
Her phone vibrated. A text.
"The preliminary audit looks fine. We'll discuss tomorrow." —AV
Leah blinked. His initials at the end were always precise. No punctuation beyond what was necessary. No warmth, but not cold either. Just… acknowledgment. She typed a reply, paused, deleted it, and finally left the screen blank.
The office felt empty now. The cleaning crew had moved on, leaving only the soft hum of the AC and the distant murmur of the city beyond the glass. She rubbed her temples, considering leaving herself, when footsteps echoed down the hall.
"Still here?"
Adrian.
She turned quickly, startled, but forced a calm smile. "Just finishing up a few things."
He stepped inside the threshold, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed yet deliberate. "You know, at some point, numbers stop being convincing if you don't take a break."
"I… I'm close," she said, glancing at the monitor. "Almost done."
He walked closer, glancing at the screen over her shoulder, careful not to crowd her. For a moment, Leah forgot to breathe as their shoulders nearly touched. Her mind registered the proximity before it processed the professionalism, and a faint awareness, fluttering and delicate, brushed through her chest.
"You've been handling the scrutiny well," he said finally, voice low. Not loud enough for anyone else to hear, though there was no one else here. "Better than most would."
Leah swallowed, forcing a neutral expression. "I'm trying."
He turned, leaning against the edge of the desk now, a few feet from her. "Trying isn't enough here. Precision is. Focus. Knowing when to stand your ground."
"Yes," she whispered, her voice barely audible even to herself.
There was a pause. The city lights reflected faintly in the glass walls, highlighting the faint tension in his jawline. Adrian's gaze lingered on her longer than necessary, and Leah felt the weight of it—not invasive, but insistent.
She realized she wanted to look away, to escape the intensity, yet a strange part of her wanted to hold the moment just a little longer.
"You should take a break," he said suddenly, as if sensing her hesitation. "A clear mind works better than exhaustion."
"I… I can't," she admitted, though even she recognized how flimsy the excuse sounded.
"Then I'll leave you to it," he said, moving back. But before he reached the door, he paused and added, "Remember… you're not alone in this. Don't let the office chatter decide your confidence."
It was simple advice, but in the quiet office, it felt weighty. A small gesture of acknowledgment, a reminder that he noticed her—not for appearances, but for her efforts, her skill, and maybe something she couldn't yet define.
Leah exhaled slowly, watching him leave. His footsteps faded, leaving her alone with the glow of the monitors and the hum of the city outside. But the room no longer felt empty. It felt… alive. Charged, in that subtle way that made her heartbeat a little quicker, her awareness sharper.
She returned to her work, fingers flying across the keys. The numbers finally made sense again, the calculations lining up perfectly. And yet, even in the clarity of her reports, Adrian's presence lingered. In the tilt of his head, in the weight of his glance, in the quiet acknowledgment that he had given her—it was enough to make the ordinary feel extraordinary.
By the time she saved the final file and leaned back, exhaustion tugging at her limbs, a quiet thrill remained. She had survived scrutiny, navigated whispered questions, and somehow… she had made her presence known. And she knew tomorrow would bring more challenges, more unspoken expectations.
But tonight, in the stillness of the office and the glow of city lights, she had taken a small victory. A quiet one. One that belonged only to her.
Outside, the city pulsed with life, indifferent to her triumphs, her small anxieties, and her careful navigation of invisible lines. Yet Leah, for the first time in a long while, felt like she belonged in that pulse—aware, capable, and just enough in the orbit of someone who noticed.