The rain started before noon—soft at first, a gray drizzle that blurred the edges of the city skyline beyond the glass windows. By mid-afternoon, the downpour had thickened into a steady rhythm, tapping against the panes like a slow heartbeat. The office lights reflected off the wet glass, doubling the world outside, and for once, Leah didn't mind the quiet.
She sat at her desk, reviewing figures that refused to stay still. Every line of the report blurred after a few minutes, her concentration breaking like ripples in puddled water. Across the room, Adrian's office door was half-closed—his usual signal that interruptions were allowed, but only if necessary.
For the past few days, they'd kept things strictly professional. Meetings, reports, subtle nods in passing. But something about that morning—maybe the weather, maybe the weight of unspoken thoughts—made the distance between them feel heavier.
Her phone buzzed.Adrian:Can you bring the procurement summaries to my office?
Short. Formal. Yet her heart betrayed her with a small flutter before she could even reply.
Leah stood, collecting the documents. She smoothed the front of her blouse, took a steadying breath, and knocked lightly on his door.
"Come in," came his voice—calm, even, familiar.
She stepped inside. Adrian was at the window, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled up, the faintest reflection of the city lights tracing his outline. Papers were spread across his desk, but it was the window that held his attention.
"You wanted the summaries?" she asked.
He turned slightly, offering a faint nod. "Yes. Thank you."
She placed the documents down, careful not to let her fingers brush his. Still, she could feel his attention shift to her, even without looking directly at him. The silence that followed wasn't awkward—it was thick, like the humid air before thunder.
He glanced at the rain. "Do you like it?" he asked suddenly.
"The rain?"
He nodded.
Leah hesitated. "Sometimes. It depends on the kind of day it is."
"And what kind is today?"
She looked out beside him, her reflection blurring in the window's sheen. "A thinking day, I guess."
Something in his expression softened—a quiet recognition. "Hmm. I'd agree."
They stood like that for a moment, side by side but separated by an invisible line neither wanted to cross. The faint scent of his cologne mixed with the crisp air from the vent, and Leah found herself tracing the raindrops racing down the glass, each one slipping away faster than the last.
"You've been doing well," he said finally, voice low. "Even with the changes in department flow. I've noticed."
Her breath hitched slightly. Praise from Adrian wasn't given lightly. "Thank you. I just… try to keep up."
"You do more than that," he said, and when their eyes met, the weight of those words hung between them. Not admiration. Not affection. Something quieter—respect, layered with something neither wanted to name.
Leah looked away first, her pulse too quick. "You shouldn't stand so close to the window," she murmured, half a deflection. "It's cold."
Adrian's mouth curved into a hint of amusement. "Noted."
The silence that followed was comfortable again. The rain continued its rhythm, softening the edges of the world. He turned back to his desk, flipping through a report. She gathered herself, meaning to leave, when he spoke again.
"Leah."
She paused at the door.
"Don't rush the next audit. Take tomorrow morning to review. I'd rather it be done right than done fast."
She nodded. "I understand."
Their eyes met once more, a silent exchange—trust, acknowledgment, something steadier than either of them said aloud. Then she left, the door closing softly behind her.
By the time Leah packed her things that evening, the rain hadn't stopped. The office had emptied except for a few late workers and the hum of computers. She slipped on her coat and took the elevator down, watching the city lights shimmer against puddles far below.
Outside, the air smelled of wet concrete and calm. Umbrellas bloomed like petals across the street. Leah hesitated by the doorway, watching cars pass, when a familiar voice came from behind her.
"You'll get drenched out there."
She turned. Adrian stood a few steps away, umbrella in hand, the dark navy of his suit a little softer under the dim light.
"I'll manage," she said, though the truth was, she hadn't even brought one.
"Clearly," he said, one brow lifting slightly. Without waiting for her to protest, he stepped closer and opened the umbrella, holding it above both of them.
The distance closed. The world shrank to the circle of dry space beneath the canopy, where his shoulder brushed hers and the rain whispered around them. Leah's breath caught—not because of the closeness, but because of the stillness it carried. For once, Adrian didn't rush. He didn't hide behind professionalism or tone. Just quiet presence.
They crossed the street together. The city glowed in reflection—puddles mirroring neon, headlights streaking through mist. Somewhere between the crosswalk and the opposite curb, Leah forgot what she was supposed to say. It didn't matter. Silence said enough.
When they reached her bus stop, she turned to him. "Thank you."
His gaze lingered, thoughtful. "You'd do the same."
"Maybe," she said softly.
A faint smile touched his lips, the kind that felt real but fleeting. "Goodnight, Leah."
"Goodnight."
He waited until she boarded before walking away, the umbrella lowering slowly as he stepped into the blur of rain and city light.
Through the window, Leah watched him go—a single figure in gray, confident and alone. Something inside her twisted, not painfully, but like recognition. Like realizing that beneath all his precision and restraint, he carried storms of his own.
As the bus pulled away, she leaned her head against the window, watching raindrops streak across the glass. The city shimmered beyond, its heartbeat steady and alive. And somewhere between the rhythm of rain and the memory of his voice, she wondered what exactly she was beginning to feel.
Not love. Not yet. But something that might become it—slowly, like rain soaking into the earth, impossible to stop once it began.