The office had emptied again, but the hum of computers and the faint whir of the HVAC kept the space from feeling completely silent. Leah stayed behind, reviewing the updated compliance draft on her screen. Every line, every figure seemed more important in the stillness of the room. She kept glancing at the clock, aware that Adrian was usually gone by now.
A soft knock broke the quiet.
"Come in," she said, expecting one of the junior staff.
The door opened, and Adrian stepped in, hands tucked loosely in his pockets, expression unreadable.
"You're still here," he said, voice casual but carrying an edge of curiosity.
"I needed to finalize the draft before sending it over." She gestured to her screen. "Just double-checking a few numbers."
He stepped closer, leaning against the desk just enough to bridge the space between them. The faint scent of his cologne lingered—a mix of cedarwood and something almost metallic. She looked down, suddenly aware of how quiet the office had become with only the two of them inside.
"You're too meticulous," he said softly, almost a reproach but not quite. "It's impressive. And exhausting."
Leah's fingers paused over the keyboard. "I like knowing it's done right," she admitted. "I… I like knowing I can trust my own work."
Adrian's eyes softened, just a fraction. "Trust is rare. Especially in places like this."
She looked up at him then, and for a moment, the usual wall of professionalism slipped. She saw it in the slight slump of his shoulders, the faint dark circles beneath his eyes—an almost human weariness that most never noticed.
"You don't have to carry everything alone," she said quietly.
He blinked. "I do," he said, almost reflexively. Then he caught himself. "Not everything. Just… the parts that matter most."
Her heart thudded in her chest—not in a romantic way, not yet—but in a recognition of his vulnerability, fleeting and real.
She looked down again, unable to meet his gaze fully, and reached for the mouse to click the final "send" on the draft. When she did, her hand brushed against his on the desk. It was brief, a fleeting contact, but it left an echo.
Adrian didn't comment. He simply nodded once, sharp, deliberate, before stepping back.
"Done," she said softly.
"Good," he replied, voice almost neutral. But the pause before he left, the way his gaze lingered just a second longer than necessary, said more than words could.
Leah leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temple. Her chest still felt light, a curious flutter that she couldn't quite name. She stared at the glow of her computer screen and realized how odd it was—how one simple, fleeting interaction could leave her mind racing. She replayed the brush of his hand, the way his eyes seemed almost to soften when he let her see a fraction of what he carried inside.
Her phone buzzed, but she ignored it, letting herself linger in the quiet. She imagined Adrian walking through the hallway, alone in the fading hum of the office. Did he feel it too—the weight of unspoken acknowledgment, the unintentional closeness that neither would admit aloud?
Leah exhaled slowly. The numbers and spreadsheets felt less like barriers now and more like a bridge—a connection that was subtle, invisible, yet undeniable. Her pulse slowed, but the memory of his presence left a faint warmth in her chest.
Outside, the city lights shimmered on wet streets. The streets were full of life, movement, and noise. Inside, the night held a quiet possibility, subtle and unspoken, waiting for tomorrow to test it again.
For the first time in weeks, Leah allowed herself to sit back, hands resting on the desk, and smile faintly. Vulnerability, she realized, wasn't weakness—it was a moment of trust, even if that trust was shared only in glances and fleeting touches. And in a world of calculated decisions and measured control, even a glimpse of it felt dangerously… alive.