(Elara POV)
The food arrives without a word.
One moment my desk is empty except for my notebook and half-finished reports. The next, a neatly packed container is placed beside my keyboard, close enough that I have to shift my hands to keep typing.
I look up too late.
Mr. Hale is already walking away.
"I have a call," he says over his shoulder, voice even, unhurried. "Eat. It'll be cold by the time I'm done."
That's it.
No explanation.
No question.
No pause to see if I respond.
I sit there for several seconds, staring at the container as if it might say something on its own. The lid is clear enough that I can see the food inside—warm, real, nothing like the instant noodles I've been living on lately.
I shouldn't accept it.
I know that.
Accepting things creates expectations. Expectations turn into obligations. And obligations, in places like this, never balance evenly.
But my stomach twists painfully, sharp enough that I have to press my lips together and breathe through it. Last night's noodles barely count as dinner. Neither does the coffee I skipped this morning to save time.
So I open the container.
The smell hits first. Steam curls upward, carrying something rich and comforting and completely out of place on my desk. My throat tightens unexpectedly, and for a moment I just sit there, fork hovering, embarrassed by the reaction.
I eat quietly.
Carefully.
Like someone might come back and take it away if I don't finish quickly enough.
I keep my eyes on my screen, even as I chew. I don't look around. I don't want anyone to notice. Food feels like a private thing here—too human, too revealing.
When I'm done, I close the container neatly and slide it to the side, tucking it under a stack of files until I can dispose of it without being seen.
I tell myself it was practical.
Nothing more.
The afternoon doesn't slow.
Schedules change. Deadlines shift. A client call is pushed back by thirty minutes, then rescheduled entirely. Small adjustments, barely noticeable unless you're the one tracking them all.
Unless you're me.
"You moved the review," I say softly when I hand Mr. Hale the updated calendar.
"Yes."
That's all.
No explanation. No justification. Just confirmation.
I nod and return to my desk, updating the remaining entries without comment. The changes ripple outward, affecting three departments and one vendor timeline. I adjust everything accordingly.
Vivienne stops by not long after.
She approaches like she always does—heels measured, expression pleasant, presence precise. She rests one hand lightly on the edge of my desk, not touching anything, not intruding.
"You're getting a lot of attention lately," she says, her tone light. Almost friendly.
"I'm just doing my work," I reply.
It's the truth. Or at least the safest version of it.
She smiles. "That's what everyone says."
Her gaze flicks briefly to the empty space beside my keyboard. I wonder if she notices the faint smell still lingering in the air. I wonder if she always notices everything.
She leans closer, lowering her voice just enough that it feels deliberate.
"Attention can be temporary," she adds. "People in power don't like surprises."
My fingers still on the desk. My spine straight.
"I understand," I say.
She straightens immediately, the moment gone as if it never existed. Her smile stays in place.
"Good."
When she walks away, the air around my desk feels colder.
Not because anything has changed.
Because something has been named without being said aloud.
I work later than usual that night.
Later than I intended. Later than is sensible. The floor empties gradually, lights dimming one by one as people leave. I keep going until my eyes ache and my shoulders feel tight with held tension.
When I finally stand, the food container is gone.
I don't remember throwing it away.
Mr. Hale's office door is closed. The glass is dark, reflecting only the overhead lights and my own tired outline.
The floor is quiet.
On the subway home, I replay the day in fragments.
The food.
The schedule changes.
The way he didn't look at me when he spoke.
It doesn't mean anything.
I know better than to think it does.
Meaning is dangerous. Meaning invites hope, and hope is a luxury I can't afford. I stand gripping the pole, swaying with the motion of the train, watching my reflection blur and sharpen with each passing station.
When I reach my building, the hallway light flickers like it's undecided about me. I unlock my apartment, step inside, and drop my bag by the door.
Dinner is whatever I can find.
A piece of bread. Peanut butter. An apple with a bruise I cut around carefully. I eat standing up, staring at the wall, forcing my thoughts into something manageable.
Numbers. Lists. Tomorrow's schedule.
Because naming things makes them real.
And I can't afford for this to be real.