By evening, the city outside Voss Tower had transformed into a blur of silver and shadow. Rain began to fall in fine, slanted lines, catching the glow of the streetlights as though the entire skyline were weeping softly. Leah stood by the office window, her reflection framed against the city's restless rhythm.
She'd stayed behind to finish the client files, but her focus had scattered hours ago. Every number felt heavier, every sentence blurred by the weight of the day's whispers. The office, once her sanctuary, now hummed with a kind of invisible noise — not from machines, but from assumptions.
She exhaled, letting her forehead rest briefly against the cool glass. Below, cars moved in rivers of light. The storm was gaining strength.
"Still here."
The familiar voice came from behind her, calm and low. She turned slightly. Adrian was leaning in the doorway, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled up, as if the day hadn't ended for him either. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes — tired yet steady — found hers in the reflection.
"I was finishing the report," Leah said, her voice steady but quiet. "Didn't want to leave it incomplete."
He stepped into the room, slow, deliberate, the soft echo of his shoes blending with the distant rumble of thunder. "You've done enough for one night."
She gave a faint smile, glancing back at her screen. "You say that, but you're still here too."
He almost smiled — almost. "Touché."
For a brief moment, silence settled again, thick but not uncomfortable. The rain beat harder against the glass, streaking the city lights into a wash of blurred gold. Adrian moved to stand beside her, his reflection now visible beside hers in the window.
"Rumors spread fast in this building," he said finally. His tone was neutral, but his words carried intent — an acknowledgment of what she hadn't dared to mention.
Leah's pulse skipped. "I've noticed," she said softly. "They'll fade eventually."
"Perhaps." His gaze shifted slightly toward her. "But perception lasts longer than truth in places like this."
She looked at him then — really looked. "You think I've done something to invite them?"
His brows drew together. "No. You've done nothing wrong. You've worked hard, and people talk when they can't match what they see."
Leah turned back to the window, the city lights mirrored in her eyes. "Still… it's uncomfortable, knowing people think there's something between us."
Adrian's voice came quieter now, a note lower. "Is there?"
The question landed softly — not an accusation, not even curiosity. It was reflective, as though he were testing the air between them. Leah froze, her heartbeat tripping over itself.
Her fingers brushed the edge of the windowsill. "No," she said finally, though her tone trembled just slightly. "There isn't."
He studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with quiet finality, he said, "Good."
But his voice wasn't firm — it was cautious, as if the word itself carried weight he didn't fully trust.
A flash of lightning cut through the room, throwing their reflections into stark relief. Leah blinked against the light, realizing how close he stood. Barely a step apart. His sleeve brushed hers as he moved slightly, and she felt the faintest trace of warmth from him — restrained, fleeting, grounding.
The silence that followed wasn't empty; it was filled with everything neither of them dared to say.
Adrian cleared his throat, breaking the moment. "You've been carrying too much lately," he said, his voice back to its usual steadiness. "Take tomorrow off after the meeting. Let HR know I approved it."
She blinked, caught off guard. "Sir, that's not necessary. I—"
"It is," he interrupted gently but firmly. "You've earned it."
She hesitated, then nodded, her lips parting as if to say more — but the words stayed trapped somewhere between gratitude and defiance. "Thank you," she said instead.
He inclined his head, eyes lingering for a heartbeat too long before he stepped back. "Don't stay too late."
As he turned toward the door, the thunder rolled again, deeper now, almost shaking the glass. Leah spoke before she could stop herself.
"Mr. Voss?"
He paused, his hand on the doorframe.
She hesitated. "Why do you… defend me?"
He turned slightly, the edge of his face visible in the dim light. "Because you don't realize how many people want to see you fail."
Her breath caught. "That's not an answer."
He exhaled, almost smiling — though it wasn't amusement, more something like resignation. "No. It isn't."
And then he was gone, his footsteps fading down the hall.
Leah stood there, the storm raging outside, the hum of the building sinking into quiet. She turned back to the glass. The reflection showed only her now — her silhouette framed against the lightning, the faint shimmer of city lights flickering across her eyes.
The words they didn't say hung heavier than the rain itself.
Across town, Adrian sat in the back of his car, watching the storm blur the world outside. His driver said something about the traffic, but he barely heard. His mind was still in the office — with her.
He had drawn lines his entire life — between power and emotion, authority and attachment. But lately, those lines blurred in ways he hadn't anticipated. Leah Morgan had a way of being both quiet and defiant, professional yet unexpectedly disarming. She made him aware of his own silences.
He exhaled sharply, leaning back in his seat. It was nothing. It had to remain nothing.
Outside, the storm continued, fierce and alive — the kind that mirrored everything unsaid between them.