I wake up the next morning telling myself it meant nothing.
He said my name. That's all.
People say names all the time. It's not an earthquake. It's not a confession.
It's just a simple syllable.
So why does it still echo in my head when I step out of the elevator?
The top floor greets me with silence and too much air.
His office door is half-open again, which is something I'm starting to realize happens only when he's in a mood.
I settle into my desk and power up my computer. The monitor's glow washes over the stillness, and for a few blissful minutes, I almost convince myself we're just two professionals minding our business.
Then the intercom buzzes.
"Miss Dawson."
"Good morning, sir."
"I didn't ask for a greeting. Coffee."
I roll my eyes where he can't see me. "Coming right up."
The break area is quiet as usual. I make the coffee like muscle memory --- no sugar, no cream, because apparently he's allergic to anything resembling joy.
When I return, I knock lightly on the doorframe. "Your coffee, sir."
He looks up from a file, eyes steady on mine. "Thank you."
No sarcasm, no critique, no 'finally.' Just two words, soft and simple.
It shouldn't mean anything, but my pulse disagrees.
"You're welcome," I manage, setting the cup down.
He watches me a moment longer than necessary. "You look tired."
"I didn't realize my job came with a facial inspection."
His brow arches. "You didn't sleep well."
I blink. "How would you know?"
"You have a tell."
I fold my arms. "And what's that?"
He leans back, eyes narrowing slightly. "You get defensive before you answer a question."
I hate that he's right. "Maybe I just don't like being analyzed at eight in the morning."
He hums, unbothered. "Then drink something stronger than coffee."
"Tempting," I mutter.
The faintest hint of a smirk ghosts over his mouth before he returns to his papers. "Meeting at nine. Confirm attendance with Martin and send me the agenda."
"Yes, sir."
I turn to leave, feeling his gaze follow me until I step out of the room.
Back at my desk, I open my inbox. There's a message from the HR head confirming next week's executive retreat, the one Xavier usually attends alone. I skim through the details, my mind drifting.
I'm not supposed to care what he does outside this office. But ever since that quiet "Hazel," I can't stop hearing the softer edges in his tone.
He's still impossible, but there's something else under it. Something I can't name because he's still unreadable.
The intercom buzzes again.
"Miss Dawson."
"Yes, sir?"
"Martin wants to move the meeting to ten. Make it happen."
"Yes, sir."
"And order lunch later. For two."
I pause. "Again?"
He doesn't answer.
I smile a little, shaking my head as I hang up. He's predictable in the most confusing way.
At ten, the meeting begins. Martin arrives and for an hour, Xavier transforms into pure authority.
I take notes, focusing on the numbers, the tone, the rhythm of his voice. But every now and then, his gaze flickers toward me.
When Martin leaves, I start gathering the papers.
"You don't have to hover," Xavier says, not looking up.
"I'm not hovering."
"You are. Sit."
I hesitate but obey.
He closes the folder in front of him and finally meets my eyes. "You handled the presentation better than expected."
"Thank you," I say carefully.
He nods once. "Confidence suits you."
That catches me off guard. "You're full of surprises this week, sir."
He leans back in his chair, expression unreadable. "And you're full of opinions."
"I've been told."
His lips curve faintly. "By me, most likely."
I can't help it, my lips stretch into a small smile. It's small, reluctant, but it happens.
He notices. Of course he does. His eyes linger on me a moment longer before he clears his throat. "Get back to work."
"Yes, sir."
As I step out, something in my chest feels lighter. I hate confrontations.
I sit back at my desk, pretending to focus on emails, but my mind keeps circling back to him. My mind replays the way his tone shifts when he says my name. The way his eyes soften when he's not looking directly at me.
By late afternoon, my inbox is clear, and the quiet hums again — thankfully comfortable this time.
Through the glass, I see him leaning back in his chair, inked arms peaking from rolled up sleeves, phone at his ear. He says something low, serious, then looks toward me. Our eyes meet for half a second before he turns away, but the look stays confident.
I exhale slo
wly and close my laptop.
For a man who keeps telling me to get back to work, he's the most distracting thing in the building.