The conference room was too bright. The overhead lights hummed faintly, bouncing off the polished table and glass walls, turning every reflection into something sharp. Leah sat at the far end, pen poised over her notes, pretending to reread the agenda she already knew by heart.
She could feel him before she saw him.
Adrian walked in with the quiet confidence that had a way of making everyone straighten. His tie was slightly loosened, the dark suit fitted just enough to look effortless, and his expression was unreadable — that same calm she'd come to both admire and dread. He placed his tablet on the table, the subtle clink of metal against glass slicing through the low murmur of voices.
"Let's begin," he said.
The meeting rolled on: numbers, projections, deadlines. Words like revenue growth and performance analysis bounced around, but Leah barely absorbed them. She was focused on his tone — even, deep, measured — the kind that made others lean in without realizing. When he spoke, the air seemed to settle.
Halfway through, he looked up and met her eyes.
It lasted less than a breath, but it changed everything.Her fingers stilled. Her heartbeat quickened.
"Ms. Bennett," he said, voice neutral, "would you walk us through the figures for last quarter?"
Her throat felt dry. She nodded, standing, willing her voice not to betray her. "Of course."
The projector light caught her face as she began, the screen painting her features in soft blues and grays. She spoke clearly — confident, careful — yet she was aware of his gaze following her every word, not in a way that intimidated, but in a way that saw too much.
When she reached the last slide, she risked a glance at him. He gave the faintest nod, approval in his eyes — quiet, professional, but something else lingered there too. Recognition.
As the team dispersed after the meeting, Leah began gathering her papers. Everyone filed out with polite chatter and relieved laughter. Only she and Adrian remained.
He spoke first. "You handled that well."
His tone wasn't casual. It was low, deliberate — the kind that carried weight.
"Thank you," she said softly, stacking her documents to keep her hands busy.
He walked closer, stopping just a few feet away. The sound of his shoes against the floor echoed in the empty room. The glass walls made everything feel too open and too enclosed at once.
"You were nervous," he said, not as a question but as an observation.
"A little," she admitted, glancing up. "But I think I managed."
His mouth curved, not quite a smile. "You did more than manage."
The compliment shouldn't have made her chest tighten, but it did. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if he realized how much his words mattered — how they lingered long after he said them.
Adrian, meanwhile, was fighting his own distraction. He'd watched her composure through the meeting — the steady tone, the careful articulation, the brief flicker of uncertainty that she had masked almost instantly. There was something grounding about it, about her.
"Next time," he said, reaching for a file near her hand, their fingers brushing lightly, "don't second-guess yourself. You have the numbers. Trust them."
The touch was brief. Innocent, technically. Yet her pulse jumped, and she stepped back before the warmth could spread.
"I'll keep that in mind," she murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
He hesitated. There was something in his eyes — conflict, restraint, maybe curiosity. He wanted to say something more, but professionalism held him back.
She could feel it.That same invisible tension that followed them from room to room, conversation to conversation — the kind that didn't need words.
"Good work today, Leah," he said finally, his voice quieter now.
"Thank you, sir."
The word sir hung between them like a fragile thread — respectful, yet heavy with all the things they weren't allowed to feel.
Adrian turned first, collecting his tablet and heading toward the door. But before he left, he paused, his reflection caught faintly in the glass wall.
"You don't need to prove yourself to anyone," he said, not looking back. "Least of all me."
Then he was gone.
Leah stood there, staring at the doorway, her pulse still uneven.She didn't know if he meant it as reassurance or warning.Either way, she knew this — the line between admiration and something deeper was becoming dangerously thin.
And somewhere in the quiet hum of the office, she realized she was already standing too close to it.