Monday Morning
The train pulled into Manchester under a low sky the colour of smoke.
Commuters moved around her in fast, practiced rhythms — bags, phones, coffee, raincoats. For everyone else, it was just another Monday. For Amelia Clarke, it was the morning after everything quietly changed.
She stood outside the glass tower of Harrington & Co., coat pulled tight, the familiar hum of the building vibrating under her fingertips.
Same lobby, same elevator, same polite smiles.
And yet, as she pressed the button for the HR floor, her heart felt foreign inside her chest.
They hadn't spoken since London.
Not a text, not a call.
Just that one moment on the terrace — brief, impossible, unforgettable.
His Office
Alexander Harrington arrived twenty minutes later. The city still glistened from early rain, and his reflection in the lift doors looked too composed for the thoughts running beneath it.
He'd told himself the flight home would settle things — that distance and routine would dissolve what had happened in London into something harmless.
But when he'd opened his phone that morning and seen her name in his schedule, his chest had tightened all over again.
09:30 – HR Pilot Debrief (Hughes / Clarke).
He almost cancelled it. Almost.
Now, as he walked into his office, coat over one arm, he caught the faint scent of rain and perfume already there.
She was early. Of course she was.
The Meeting
Amelia stood by the round table, files arranged in neat order.
When he entered, she straightened, keeping her voice professional. "Good morning, Mr. Harrington."
He returned the greeting with equal precision. "Morning, Miss Clarke."
The silence that followed was fine as glass. He gestured for her to begin, and she launched into the report — metrics, retention data, feedback loops — every number an armour between them.
He listened, but not really. He was watching the way she refused to meet his eyes for longer than a second, the way her voice stayed steady but softer than usual.
She'd always been calm. Today, she was careful.
When she finished, he closed the file, leaned back, and said simply, "Good work."
"Thank you, sir." She turned slightly, gathering her notes.
He hesitated. Then, almost against his better judgment: "London seems to have been… productive."
Her breath caught, just slightly. "Yes. I learned a lot."
He almost smiled — not the polite kind, but something rueful. "So did I."
Her eyes lifted then, blue and bright and uncertain. For a heartbeat, the air between them changed again — something alive flickering underneath the ordinary.
And then Margaret entered, all business and calm authority, and the moment dissolved like steam.
Midday
By lunchtime, the office rhythm had swallowed her again.
Nora leaned over the partition, grinning. "So? How was London with the boss? Did he terrify everyone?"
Amelia managed a laugh. "No more than usual."
"Did you see the conference photos? You looked incredible. Half the department's convinced you've got a promotion coming."
She shook her head, smiling, but the mention of photos made her stomach twist. If any camera had caught that look on the terrace… but no. That had been their secret — invisible, private, hers and his.
Afternoon
Upstairs, Alexander sat behind his desk, the city stretched below like a map he'd already memorised. He was supposed to be reviewing contracts, but his thoughts kept drifting.
He could still feel the rain on the terrace, the warmth of her breath when she'd looked up, the quiet way she hadn't stepped back. It hadn't been planned. It had just… happened.
He'd spent most of his adult life controlling outcomes — markets, negotiations, reputations. But there was no formula for this, no strategy that made sense of wanting something he shouldn't even allow himself to name.
At 3 p.m., he sent a message to Margaret:
Please have Miss Clarke bring the Trust Index projection file to my office before close of day.
It was professional. Entirely professional.
But he already knew it was an excuse.
Late Afternoon
She arrived at five, folder in hand, knocking softly.
"You asked for the projections, sir."
He looked up from his screen, eyes shadowed by the setting light. "Yes. Come in."
She crossed the room, set the folder on his desk. He thanked her, then said, "Have a seat."
Her pulse quickened. She obeyed.
He opened the folder, scanning it without really reading. Then he said quietly, "How are you finding the return to routine?"
"It feels… different," she admitted. "After London."
He nodded slowly. "It does."
There was a long pause, filled only by the low hum of the city below.
"Amelia," he said finally, voice barely above a whisper, "I'm aware this—whatever happened—shouldn't complicate your work. If at any point you feel uncomfortable—"
"I don't," she said quickly. Too quickly.
Then softer: "I don't feel uncomfortable, Mr. Harrington. I just don't quite know what I'm supposed to feel."
He looked at her then, properly. "Neither do I."
The honesty in his tone was disarming — the kind of truth that doesn't belong in offices.
Evening
When she left his office, the sun had already dipped behind the skyline.
Downstairs, the building had emptied. Rain began again, faint against the glass.
As she stepped outside, she saw him in the lobby, coat in hand, speaking to the security guard. He looked up, saw her, and for a brief moment — a smile that wasn't corporate, wasn't cautious, just his.
He held the door open. "Do you have far to go?"
"Just the station," she said.
"I'll walk you," he replied simply.
She didn't argue.
They walked side by side through the drizzle, the city soft and blue around them. Their conversation drifted from work to the meaningless things people say when meaning too much.
At a red light, she stopped, turning slightly toward him. "You don't have to—"
"I know," he said. "I want to."
The traffic passed. The rain deepened. They didn't speak again until they reached the corner where her route split.
"Goodnight, Mr. Harrington," she said, voice gentle.
"Goodnight, Amelia."
For a moment, neither moved. The world was all streetlight and rain and heartbeat. Then he lifted a hand, brushing a strand of wet hair from her face — a simple gesture, but one that carried everything neither could say.
And then, like all disciplined people who know they're near the edge, they both stepped back.
That night, she wrote in her journal for the first time in months. Just a single line:
It's strange how something can feel both impossible and inevitable at the same time.
And upstairs, in his penthouse above the city, Alexander closed his laptop, looked out at the rain, and whispered the same thought to himself.