The meeting ran longer than planned.
By the time it ended, the office had emptied out again, the usual post-work quiet settling in. Papers were stacked neatly. Laptops shut. Chairs pushed in with practiced care.
She closed the conference room door herself.
That alone felt different.
"Walk with me," she said.
It wasn't a request.
I followed her down the hallway toward her office, my steps matching hers without thinking. The glass walls reflected our movements back at us—two figures moving in parallel, careful not to overlap.
Inside, she set her tablet on the desk and loosened her grip on it, just slightly. A small detail. One I probably shouldn't have noticed.
"You handled the client well today," she said.
"Thank you."
"They trust you."
I nodded. "I try to be reliable."
She looked at me then. Really looked. Not as a subordinate, not as a name on a report, but as someone standing in front of her.
"That's what concerns me," she said.
I frowned. "Being reliable?"
"Being noticed," she corrected.
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was deliberate.
"I didn't ask you here to praise you," she continued. "I asked because situations like today… they create assumptions."
I waited.
"People talk," she said. "They connect dots that don't exist."
"I haven't said anything," I replied immediately.
"I know."
She sighed softly and turned toward the window. The city was still bright, even this late. Office lights dotted the skyline like constellations.
"This is why I keep things simple," she said. "Clear roles. Clear expectations."
I swallowed. "And if someone crosses them?"
She didn't answer right away.
Instead, she asked, "Do you feel uncomfortable working here?"
"No," I said. "I like my job."
"That wasn't what I asked."
I hesitated. "No. I don't feel uncomfortable."
She nodded, as if confirming something to herself.
"Good," she said. "Because I don't intend to change how I operate."
Her tone was firm. Final.
"I wouldn't expect you to," I said.
She turned back to me then, and for a moment, her composure slipped. Just enough to reveal something human underneath—fatigue, maybe. Or restraint stretched thin.
"This isn't personal," she said quietly.
"I know."
She studied my face, searching for something. Doubt. Resistance. Disappointment.
I kept my expression neutral.
After a moment, she straightened, professionalism settling back into place like armor.
"You can head out," she said. "I'll handle the rest."
I stood.
At the door, I paused—not because I wanted to say something, but because leaving felt unfinished.
"Ms. Sheldon," I said.
She looked up.
"I respect you," I added. "Whatever that's worth."
For a second, she didn't respond.
Then she nodded once. "That's enough."
I left.
In the elevator, I replayed the conversation again and again, searching for what had changed.
Nothing had been said.
Nothing had crossed a line.
And yet, something had shifted.
Not between us.
Inside her.