The city was quiet that night, wrapped in its own rhythm of distant horns and rain that hadn't decided whether to fall or fade. Leah sat at her desk long after everyone had gone, the dim light from her monitor reflecting against the glass wall like a second, lonelier world.
She told herself she was finishing the quarterly notes. In truth, she was waiting—though for what, she couldn't say. Maybe for her heartbeat to steady after the day's chaos. Maybe for the memory of Adrian's voice—low, clipped, impossible to ignore—to stop replaying in her head.
The elevator chimed once. Soft. Certain.
She didn't turn until she heard his footsteps. Adrian's reflection appeared behind hers on the window, the silver of his tie catching the faint glow. He carried no folder this time, no pen, no visible purpose. Just presence—steady, deliberate, unreadable.
"Still here," he said.
"I was just wrapping up," Leah replied, quickly minimizing her screen.
His eyes moved over the desk—papers stacked with her usual precision, a cup of untouched coffee cooling beside her keyboard. "You've been here since eight."
"I lost track of time."
He leaned slightly against the edge of the desk, arms folded. "That's what people say when they're trying to outrun something."
She met his gaze then, unguarded for once. "And what do you think I'm outrunning, Mr. Voss?"
"Yourself," he said quietly. "Or the things you don't want to name."
The words landed heavier than she expected. She looked away first, fingers tracing the rim of her coffee cup. "You sound certain."
"I recognize it," he said, his tone softening just a fraction. "Work as armor. Precision as silence. I've used both."
That startled her—hearing him admit something so close to personal. "And did it work?"
"For a while." His eyes found the window, the city stretching endlessly below. "Until silence became the loudest thing in the room."
Leah smiled faintly, but it wasn't amusement—it was understanding. "You surprise me sometimes."
"I know." A pause. "I shouldn't."
For a moment, neither spoke. The hum of the city filled the space between them, quiet but alive.
Then Adrian moved, his voice softer now, almost thoughtful. "When you challenged me in the meeting today—when you said the projections needed revision before approval—you were right. But it wasn't the accuracy that caught my attention."
Her breath stilled. "Then what was it?"
"You didn't hesitate," he said. "You spoke as if you had the right to be heard. Most people fold the moment I look at them. You didn't."
Leah's pulse skipped. Compliment wasn't the word—it was acknowledgment, rare and unguarded. "I wasn't trying to challenge you."
"You did anyway."
He said it like it mattered.
The air between them shifted. Not romantic, not yet. Just charged—two people seeing too much of each other under the pretense of professionalism.
She gathered her papers, needing motion to anchor herself. "It's late. You should go home."
"You first."
Her hand stilled. "I'll leave after you."
He exhaled through his nose, a sound that might have been amusement—or resignation. Then, quietly, "Leah."
It was the first time he'd said her name without title, without distance. Just Leah.
She turned.
For a heartbeat, he looked like he wanted to say something more. But the moment passed, and he straightened instead. "Lock the door when you leave."
When he was gone, the silence returned—but it wasn't heavy anymore. It lingered differently, like an echo that carried warmth instead of weight.
Leah glanced once more at the glass where his reflection had been. Then, for reasons she couldn't explain, she smiled.