I didn't leave right away.
I stood in the hallway outside her office longer than I should have, listening to the faint hum of the building settling into night. The elevator chimed somewhere below. A cleaning cart rolled past, wheels squeaking softly, and then the floor was quiet again.
I told myself to go home.
I didn't.
By the time I reached my desk, my phone buzzed once.
Sheldon:Did you send the final attachment?
I stared at the screen. She never texted after hours unless something mattered.
Me:Yes. It's in the shared folder.
A pause. Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Then:
Sheldon:Come back in for a minute.
That was all.
No explanation. No tone. Just an instruction.
I took a breath before turning around.
Her office looked different at night. The harsh daylight was gone, replaced by the soft glow of desk lamps and the city beyond the glass. The room felt smaller. More personal. Like a space that wasn't meant to be seen after dark.
She was sitting now, jacket draped neatly over the back of her chair, sleeves rolled just enough to suggest she planned to keep working.
"Close the door," she said.
I did.
The click echoed louder than it should have.
She gestured to the chair across from her desk. I sat, hands folded automatically in my lap. A habit I hadn't realized I'd formed until then.
"You've been distracted lately," she said.
It wasn't an accusation. Just an observation.
"I'm fine," I replied quickly.
Her gaze lifted to mine, steady and assessing. The kind of look that had unnerved board members twice my age.
"You're good at your job," she continued. "That's why I notice when you're not fully present."
I swallowed. "I didn't mean to—"
She raised a hand. "This isn't a reprimand."
The silence that followed felt heavier than any criticism.
"I need people I can trust," she said. "Especially now."
"Now?" I asked.
She leaned back slightly, eyes returning to the window. "There's a restructuring coming. It won't be public for a while."
I nodded. "Understood."
Another pause. Then, more quietly, "This stays between us."
"Of course."
She looked at me again, and for a moment, the professional distance wavered. Not disappeared. Just… shifted. Like a crack in glass that only showed under the right light.
"You should be careful," she said.
"With the workload?"
"With yourself."
The words caught me off guard.
"I don't follow," I said.
She stood, walking past the desk to the window. The city reflected faintly against the glass, blending with her silhouette until it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.
"This company has rules," she said. "So do I."
My chest tightened.
"I've worked too hard to let anything blur those lines."
I knew what she was saying.
And I knew she wasn't only talking about work.
"I respect that," I said, meaning it.
She turned then, fully facing me.
"Good."
Her voice was calm again. Composed. Back behind the wall she wore so well.
"You can go home," she said. "For real this time."
I stood.
At the door, my hand hovered over the handle. I didn't know what I expected—some sign, some contradiction—but she had already returned to her desk, eyes on the screen, expression unreadable.
"Yes, ma'am," I said.
She didn't respond.
The elevator ride down felt longer than usual. My reflection stared back at me from the polished doors, unfamiliar and unsettled.
Outside, the rain had stopped. The air smelled clean, like the city had washed itself before morning.
I walked instead of taking a cab.
I told myself it was nothing. A late night. A conversation taken too seriously.
But the truth lingered, stubborn and quiet.
She'd noticed.
And that meant something had already changed—whether either of us was ready to admit it or not.