The espresso machine sputtered like it was dying.
Fitting. I felt about the same.
I leaned against the counter, arms crossed tightly, watching as the machine coughed out a reluctant stream of coffee. The break room was mostly empty, quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the hiss of hot water. It smelled like burnt toast, printer ink, and too many people pretending they didn't cry in bathroom stalls.
I should've been reviewing documents or re-reading onboarding emails. Instead, I was here, waiting on caffeine and clinging to familiarity like it could anchor me.
Because nothing else felt real today.
This job still didn't feel real. Not the office, not the sharp-edged heels clicking down the halls, not the way people looked right through me like I hadn't earned the seat I was in. Maybe I hadn't. But I was here.
Just… here.
You're doing fine, I told myself. You showed up. You're here.
But grief had a way of making everything feel temporary. Fragile. Even coffee.
I used to make six of these an hour. Back when I wore an apron instead of a blazer. When people called me "Jade" instead of "the new girl" and smiled when I handed them their drinks. I was fast. Efficient. Good. I could steam milk blindfolded and still draw a heart in the foam.
Back then, I had a rhythm. A routine. A version of life I could trust.
Now it was just survival.
The door creaked open.
"You're in my spot."
That voice. Calm. Cold. Familiar.
I turned around slowly. Of course it was him.
"Didn't see your name on it," I replied, trying to sound casual.
Mr. Pierce didn't smile — not that I expected him to. He moved like the office belonged to him. Which, in every way that mattered, it did.
He reached into the cupboard and poured himself a cup, eyes on the machine like it might bite. "Rough morning?"
"It's my first day," I said, trying not to let the weight of it show.
"And you're already hiding?"
"I'm regrouping," I muttered.
He gave me a sideways glance. "Barista instincts kicking in?"
I blinked. "How do you—?"
"I read your file."
Of course he did.
"You listed latte art under 'relevant skills.'" He raised a brow. "Bold move."
"It was a joke."
"It's in ink."
I opened my mouth to respond — maybe to explain, maybe to apologize — but he was already moving toward the door.
"You're assisting me on the Rossner acquisition. Briefing's in fifteen."
Then he was gone.
No time to think. No time to spiral.
Just fifteen minutes.
The conference room was sleek, sterile, and colder than necessary.
I took the seat next to him because it was the only one left. He didn't look at me, just slid a folder across the table. I opened it with steady hands and a head full of static.
I tried to focus on the meeting — on the facts and numbers and legalese swirling around the table like a language I should know by now. But grief had rewired my brain. Some days it felt like I was watching my life from the outside. Like I'd wake up and realize I'd only dreamed of suits and law firms and offices with glass walls.
Other days… it felt like punishment. For surviving.
I forced myself to take notes anyway, pen scratching quickly across the page. I didn't want to look lost. I couldn't afford to.
"Your pen's moving like you're solving world hunger," Mr. Pierce muttered beside me.
I jumped a little, startled. "What?"
"You're thinking too loud."
I didn't smile. Not really. But something flickered inside me. Something close to relief. I glanced at him, but he was already looking down at my notes.
Approval. Quiet. Almost invisible. But there.
And I held onto it like a lifeline.
By the end of the day, I was drained.
My head hurt. My feet ached. My heart was quiet — but not calm.
I needed something to ground me.
Coffee.
Two cups this time. One for me, one for him. I didn't ask — I just remembered. Two sugars. No milk. The kind of order that left no room for softness.
I knocked once before stepping into his office and set the cup on his desk without a word.
He didn't look up.
I turned to leave.
"Stay."
My fingers froze around the doorknob.
I looked back. He was still focused on his screen.
"I asked you something earlier," he said. "Why'd you apply here?"
I hesitated. Then gave him the truth, because I was too tired to lie.
"I didn't think I'd get it," I said softly. "But I needed something to prove I wasn't falling apart."
That made him look at me. Like, really look.
"You lost someone."
It wasn't a question.
My throat tightened. I nodded once.
He didn't ask who. Or how. Or when. Thank God.
He just said, "Keep proving it. To yourself, not me."
And that was it.
Walls back up. Moment gone.
But something inside me — something small and sad and brave — shifted.
When I got back to my desk, I checked my phone.
Isaiah: Don't forget dinner. I'm cooking. You're legally required to show up.
I smiled.
He was the only person who still texted me like I hadn't changed.
I zipped my bag shut — but something in my pocket stopped me.
A folded piece of cream paper.
No name. Just one sentence in tight, neat handwriting.
"You're not invisible, Jade."
My heart stopped.
No signature. No clue.
But I already knew.
And for the first time all day, I didn't know what to do with myself.