The city looked different at night.
Maybe it was just the rain, or the way the streetlights painted everything in soft amber, but to Amelia, Manchester felt heavier — slower somehow, like a place holding its breath.
She walked home from the tram stop with her coat pulled tight around her. The pavement glistened, reflecting the world in fragments — passing cars, neon signs, her own uncertain reflection looking back at her.
She didn't cry. She refused to.
But her throat ached from holding everything in.
The conversation from earlier still echoed in her chest.
His voice, calm but cracked: If giving you space is what you need, then I'll do that.
And hers, smaller than she'd meant it to be: Time, then.
Time.
As if time could cure the ache of wanting something she wasn't allowed to have.
At home, she kicked off her shoes, dropped her bag on the sofa, and went straight to the kitchen.
The small flat smelled faintly of lavender and rain-soaked air. She poured herself a glass of water and leaned against the counter, staring out at the wet rooftops.
Everything was exactly as it had been before New York.
And yet, everything had changed.
Her phone buzzed — Emma.
Emma: I know you're home. I'm coming over.
Amelia: No, it's late.
Emma: You've had that tone for three days. I'm not asking.
Ten minutes later, there was a knock at the door.
Emma arrived wrapped in a huge scarf, carrying a takeaway bag that smelled like comfort.
"Emergency delivery," she said, holding it up. "Thai noodles and emotional rescue."
Amelia managed a smile. "You're too good to me."
"I know," Emma said cheerfully, slipping off her coat. "Now tell me why you look like a Jane Austen heroine who just found out her fiancé's marrying her cousin."
Amelia laughed, but it came out tired. "It's nothing, really."
"Amelia Clarke," Emma said, crossing her arms, "you've never been able to lie to me. Start talking."
Amelia sat on the sofa, drawing her knees close. "It's… complicated."
Emma joined her. "It always is. Is it about him?"
Amelia hesitated. That was enough of an answer.
"I thought so," Emma said softly. "You fell for him, didn't you?"
Amelia stared at the steam rising from the takeout box. "I didn't mean to. I swear I didn't. It just… happened. And now everyone at work looks at me like I've done something wrong."
"You haven't," Emma said firmly.
"I have," Amelia whispered. "I let my heart wander where it shouldn't. And now it's going to cost me everything I've worked for."
Emma reached over and took her hand. "You've spent years building walls, Amelia. Maybe you deserve to feel something real for once."
Amelia smiled weakly. "Even if it ruins me?"
"Especially if it ruins you," Emma said. "Because then you'll know it mattered."
Later, after Emma left, the flat felt too quiet.
Amelia turned off the lights and sat by the window, watching the rain fall again. The city hummed — cars, laughter, sirens — but she felt suspended between two worlds: the one she'd built, and the one she'd stumbled into with him.
Her phone lit up.
One new message.
Her heart jumped when she saw the name.
From: Alexander Harrington
Subject: Tonight
I told my grandmother about you.
She told me love isn't something we can schedule or silence.
She's right.
I'll give you the time you asked for, Amelia. But please know this — I'm not asking for distance because I want it.
I'm asking because I need to deserve you first.
— A.
She stared at the screen until the words blurred. Then she reread them, once, twice, a dozen times, until her chest felt too tight to breathe.
He'd told his grandmother.
He hadn't hidden her. He hadn't lied.
Her heart ached with something dangerously close to hope.
She closed her eyes, pressed the phone to her chest, and whispered into the stillness,
"Please don't let this be another story that ends too soon."
Outside, the rain slowed to a soft drizzle.
Somewhere across the city, she imagined him standing by his window, thinking of her.
And for the first time since she left his office, the silence between them didn't feel like distance — it felt like a promise.
…
A week.
That was all it had been — seven days, countless hours, endless seconds — but to Amelia, it felt like a lifetime.
She threw herself into work the way she always had, but this time it was different. Her focus wasn't sharp; it was defensive. She stayed late, volunteered for projects, offered to cover shifts that weren't hers. Every minute filled was a minute not spent thinking about him.
Still, he was everywhere.
In the meetings where someone quoted his words.
In the emails signed with his initials.
In the silence that seemed to stretch whenever she caught a glimpse of him across the office, sleeves rolled, brow furrowed, pretending she wasn't there.
They hadn't spoken since that night.
He'd kept his word.
And somehow, that made it worse.
Across the building, Alexander Harrington was unravelling quietly.
His staff thought he'd thrown himself into expansion talks with the board. They didn't realise work was the only battlefield left where he could still win.
He kept his distance — polite nods in corridors, brief eye contact in meetings, nothing more.
But every restraint cost him.
He caught himself glancing toward her desk in open-plan meetings, searching for the curve of her handwriting on notes passed to Margaret, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she concentrated.
It was torture in a suit and tie.
And yet, he endured it — for her.
On Thursday morning, the week decided to test them both.
A meeting with the firm's biggest partner was rescheduled last-minute — one that Alexander had been meant to lead with Margaret. But Margaret was home sick, and Amelia was the only senior HR staff available.
When the notice came through, she felt her stomach drop.
Subject: 11:30 a.m. – Harrington Group / Crown Logistics Strategy Session
Participants: A. Harrington, A. Clarke
She stared at the screen, frozen.
Nora, passing by her desk, caught the look.
"What's that face?"
"Fate," Amelia muttered.
The meeting was in the glass-walled boardroom on the top floor.
She arrived early, trying to steady her hands, laying out documents she didn't need to double-check but did anyway.
He walked in two minutes later.
The air changed instantly.
"Good morning," he said quietly.
"Morning," she replied, without looking up.
He took his seat at the far end of the table. The sunlight caught his watch, the same one he'd worn in New York. Every time the metal glinted, her pulse betrayed her.
The meeting began. Numbers. Timelines. Growth projections. She spoke clearly, evenly, every syllable precise. If anyone in that room had seen them together a week ago, they'd never have believed it.
But then, halfway through, he looked up.
Just once.
And that look undid her.
It wasn't long, no more than a heartbeat, but in that moment she saw everything he wasn't saying: the apology, the longing, the restraint.
She forgot what slide they were on.
Her voice caught slightly before she recovered.
When it ended, the partners filed out, congratulating them both on the smooth delivery.
She gathered her notes with trembling hands, trying not to breathe too deeply.
"Amelia," he said softly when the door closed.
She froze.
He was standing at the head of the table now, the city stretching behind him in sheets of rain. "You handled that perfectly."
"Thank you."
"I mean it."
"I know." She turned, clutching her folder. "If that's all—"
"It's not."
Something in his tone made her stop.
He walked toward her slowly, stopping a few feet away.
"I've done everything you asked," he said. "I've given you time. I've kept my distance. But I need to know something before I lose my mind."
She looked up at him, heart pounding. "What?"
"Do you want me to stop?"
Her lips parted. "Stop what?"
"This," he said, gesturing helplessly between them. "Whatever this is — the wanting, the waiting, the pretending it doesn't matter. If you tell me to stop, I'll stop. But I need you to tell me."
The rain outside pressed against the glass like applause.
"Alexander…" she whispered, her voice shaking.
He took another step closer. "Just tell me you don't feel it too, and I'll walk away right now."
She stared at him, her throat tight. "I never said I didn't feel it."
"Then why—"
"Because feeling it doesn't make it right," she said, tears rising. "Because I can't lose myself in something that could destroy everything I've worked for."
He nodded slowly, pain flickering behind his eyes. "Then you'd rather keep pretending?"
"Yes," she said, though her voice broke on the word. "Because at least pretending doesn't hurt anyone."
They stood there, only inches apart, both caught in the impossible truth of it.
Finally, he exhaled, defeated but gentle. "Alright."
She turned to leave — but before she reached the door, he spoke again.
"I won't stop caring about you, Amelia," he said softly. "Even if I never say it again."
She paused, her hand on the doorframe, eyes glistening. "That's exactly what scares me."
Then she was gone.
That night, neither of them slept.
He stared at the ceiling in his apartment, wondering if he'd done the right thing.
She lay awake in hers, clutching her pillow, trying to remember how it felt to breathe without thinking of him.
And somewhere in the middle of the city, under the same storm-soaked sky, two people who should never have fallen in love finally began to realise that maybe it wasn't a choice anymore.
It was fate.