The rain started without warning.
One moment the street was busy with traffic and voices, the next it was blurred by water streaking down glass and pavement. Umbrellas bloomed open like reflexes.
I didn't have one.
I stepped out of the building anyway, pulling my jacket closer as the cold settled in. The air smelled like wet concrete and ozone.
"Wait."
Her voice cut through the noise.
I turned.
She stood just inside the entrance, coat already on, keys in hand. The lobby lights framed her from behind, casting her face in softer shadow than I was used to seeing.
"You'll catch a cold," she said.
It wasn't an order. It wasn't professional.
It was concern.
"I'll be fine," I replied.
She glanced at the rain, then at me. A pause. A calculation.
"Come with me," she said. "My car's this way."
I hesitated.
"We're going in the same direction," she added. "It's practical."
Of course it was.
We stepped into the rain together. She held the umbrella higher than necessary, angling it so the edge shielded me first. Our shoulders didn't touch, but the space between us felt deliberate.
The city hummed around us—tires slicing through water, distant horns, muted conversations passing by.
"You don't usually stay late on Fridays," I said.
"I didn't plan to," she replied. "Today… ran long."
"So did my thoughts," I almost said.
Almost.
We stopped at the crosswalk. Red light. Rain tapping against the umbrella in a steady rhythm.
She glanced at me. "You could've said no."
"I know."
"Why didn't you?"
I met her gaze. "You offered."
For a moment, her expression softened. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to be real.
"That's dangerous," she said quietly.
"For me or for you?"
She looked away before answering.
"Both."
The light turned green.
Her car was parked just ahead. A sleek, dark sedan—efficient, understated. Very her.
She unlocked it and stepped back, holding the door open.
"I can drop you near your place," she said. "If you'd like."
I nodded. "Thank you."
Inside the car, the world went quiet. Rain drummed against the roof, steady and distant. The scent of leather and something faintly floral filled the space.
She started the engine but didn't pull away immediately.
"Tonight doesn't change anything," she said.
"I know."
Her fingers tightened slightly on the steering wheel.
"And tomorrow," she continued, "we go back to how things are."
I looked at her profile—the controlled line of her jaw, the focus in her eyes.
"Tomorrow," I agreed.
She finally drove.
The ride was silent, but it wasn't empty.
Every red light felt longer. Every turn carried something unsaid.
When she stopped near my building, I reached for the handle, then paused.
"Thank you," I said again. "For the ride."
She nodded. "Get home safe."
I opened the door, then looked back.
She was already watching me.
Not as my boss.
Not as a rule.
Just as a woman sitting alone in the rain.
And for the first time, I wondered—
if she was trying just as hard as I wasnot to cross that line.