Khloe's POV
Walking out of his office felt nothing like it used to.
The hallway hadn't changed. The floors were still polished to a dull shine, the lighting still soft and intentional, the quiet hum of work still threading through the space like background noise. People passed by with files tucked under their arms, phones pressed to their ears, conversations half-whispered.
But my body moved through it differently.
Slower.
Tighter.
Like every step asked more of me than it ever had before.
I kept my head straight and my shoulders squared, forcing my spine to stay upright even though something inside me felt unsteady. I didn't look back. I couldn't. If I did, I wasn't sure I'd keep walking.
I had said no.
I had drawn the line—clear, careful, necessary.
And somehow, it felt heavier than saying yes ever could have.
When I reached my office, I shut the door behind me and leaned against it, just for a moment. Maybe two. Long enough for the quiet to rush in, long enough for my breath to come uneven, shallow in my chest.
My hand stayed on the door longer than it needed to.
This was what I wanted, wasn't it?
Professional. Clear. Safe.
That was what I'd told myself when I walked into his office earlier. That was the language I'd used. The armor I'd chosen.
So why did it feel like something fragile had cracked open anyway?
I pushed myself away from the door and crossed the room, sitting at my desk as if routine could steady me. I turned on my computer, opened my inbox, scanned emails that blurred together without meaning.
Emails. Notes. Reports.
The familiar rhythm used to ground me.
Today, it didn't.
My fingers hovered above the keyboard, unmoving. I stared at the screen without reading a single word. Every few minutes, my mind drifted—uninvited—back to him.
His voice.
The way it had softened when he asked if I was sure.
The way he hadn't argued when I said we couldn't do this. No persuasion. No frustration.
Just quiet.
That was what unsettled me the most.
I could've handled anger. I could've handled distance. But his calm acceptance felt heavier somehow, like it carried meaning I didn't yet understand.
By the time the client arrived for the afternoon project meeting, I had managed to gather myself—or at least assemble something close enough to pass as composure.
The conference room filled with polite conversation, documents sliding across the table, the practiced cadence of professionalism. I explained projections, clarified timelines, answered questions with a steady voice.
I did my job.
But I felt it.
Xavier's gaze.
It wasn't obvious. He wasn't staring, wasn't careless. He was composed, professional, every inch the man he always was in meetings.
But I could feel him anyway.
Every time I spoke, I sensed his attention shift—not evaluative, not corrective.
Watching.
Noticing.
It tightened something in my chest. My throat felt dry, my breaths shorter. I avoided looking in his direction, afraid of what I'd find if I did. Afraid of how quickly the room might shrink if our eyes met and the space between us disappeared.
The meeting ended smoothly. Handshakes. Thank-yous. Promises of follow-ups.
The client left satisfied.
The room emptied.
And still, I felt him.
I gathered my things quickly, standing before my thoughts could catch up with me.
"Khloe."
My name stopped me halfway to the door.
I turned, forcing calm into my face like a practiced mask.
"Yes?"
He was standing now, jacket still perfectly in place, posture relaxed. Anyone else would've missed it—the slight tension in his jaw, the way his eyes held something darker than before.
"You handled that well," he said.
"Thank you."
Professional. Neutral. Safe.
A thin silence stretched between us, fragile and loaded all at once.
"You can go," he added quietly.
I nodded once and left before either of us said something we couldn't take back.
The rest of the day passed in fragments. I worked. I answered questions. I smiled when required. I spoke when spoken to.
But everything felt slightly off-center, like I was walking through familiar spaces with different gravity.
When evening finally came and I shut down my computer, relief washed over me—soft but immediate. I just wanted to go home. To sit in silence. To exist without awareness pressing in on me.
As I stepped outside, the sky already dark, headlights cut through the parking lot.
His car.
I stopped short.
Xavier stepped out, already moving toward me, as if this had always been the plan.
"I'll take you home," he said.
I opened my mouth to refuse—out of habit more than intent—but the words stalled. I was tired. Emotionally wrung out in a way sleep alone wouldn't fix.
So instead, I nodded.
"Okay."
He didn't look surprised. He simply opened the passenger door, waiting until I was settled before closing it gently.
The drive started in silence. Not uncomfortable. Not easy either.
Streetlights passed in steady rhythm. The city hummed softly around us, alive and indifferent.
"I meant what I said earlier," he spoke at last, eyes still on the road. "About respecting your decision."
"I know," I said quietly.
"I just want you safe," he continued. "That hasn't changed."
My hands rested in my lap. I watched the world slide past the window.
"I've been thinking," he added after a moment. "About your living situation."
I turned toward him. "What about it?"
"There's an apartment," he said. "One of ours. In the North Crest estate."
I blinked, my breath catching. "Xavier—"
"You wouldn't owe me anything," he interrupted gently. "No strings. No expectations. It's secure. Close to work. You wouldn't have to worry about transport or safety."
The words landed slowly, carefully.
"You want to… give me an apartment?"
"Offer," he corrected. "Not give."
"Why?" I asked, my voice barely steady.
His jaw tightened just slightly.
"Because I care," he said. "And because I can."
The weight of that settled in my chest—not heavy, exactly, but significant.
"I don't know what to say."
"You don't have to," he replied. "Just think about it."
The car slowed as we reached my place. He parked and turned toward me.
"I won't push," he said. "But I won't pretend you don't matter either."
Something in my chest pulled tight.
"Goodnight, Khloe."
"Goodnight… Xavier."
As I stepped out of the car and watched him drive away, one truth followed me inside, quiet and undeniable:
I hadn't just turned him down.
I had stepped into something far more complicated than either of us was ready for.