The restaurant sat tucked beneath the glow of Helmsworth's older district—a place that looked too intimate for business, yet too formal for anything else. Leah hesitated by the window, breath fogging faintly against the glass. Inside, the light was dim, golden, casting slow-moving shadows over polished tables.
She almost turned back. This wasn't supposed to feel like an evening out. It was just dinner—necessary, professional. The kind of meeting that could be filed under client relations or team cohesion if anyone asked.
Then Adrian appeared.
He was already inside, standing as the host gestured toward her. Black suit, no tie. A version of him she'd never seen—less precise, more human, yet somehow sharper for it. When his gaze found hers through the reflection, she straightened instinctively, every nerve remembering the day.
"Ms. Morgan," he said as she reached the table, voice calm but not cold. "You made it."
She nodded, setting her coat neatly on the back of the chair. "I wasn't sure if this was… formal."
"It's not." He sat again, motioning for her to do the same. "But we'll call it productive if anyone asks."
A faint smile tugged at her mouth. "That's comforting."
Menus arrived, thin leather with crisp lettering. Leah opened hers mostly for something to do. Adrian's attention, she could feel, lingered without intruding. When she looked up, he was scanning the wine list, his expression unreadable.
"You don't drink during the week, do you?" she asked, surprising herself.
He glanced up. "You've noticed."
"I notice things," she said softly.
His eyes held hers a second longer than necessary. "So do I."
The waiter returned, and conversation retreated into the background noise of silverware and quiet music. Adrian ordered simply—grilled salmon, black coffee. Leah followed, something light she'd barely taste.
Once they were alone again, he leaned back. "You've been quiet lately."
She met his gaze. "You've been… everywhere lately. Meetings, investors, travel. It felt safer to stay out of your way."
He studied her a moment, then said, "You don't need to."
Her laugh was quiet, short. "I think half the office would disagree."
"Half the office," he said, "has a lot of opinions about things they don't understand."
The words carried an edge—protective, but restrained. She caught herself before responding too quickly. "You mean the rumors."
His eyes hardened slightly. "People fill silence with speculation. You can't control it. You can only decide what deserves your energy."
Leah toyed with the edge of her napkin. "And if it's personal?"
"That's when you give it the least."
Something in his voice softened at the end. Not advice—experience.
When their plates arrived, the conversation shifted. Work. Proposals. A potential client merger. But the rhythm of speech carried undercurrents—hesitations, glances, the occasional overlap of words that neither meant to share at the same time.
"You're different outside the office," she said eventually.
He raised an eyebrow. "Different how?"
"Less… defined."
He gave a quiet hum of acknowledgment. "That's not necessarily a compliment."
"It's not a criticism." She looked down at her plate. "You just seem less like a headline."
For the first time that evening, he smiled—not faintly, but fully, if only for a breath. "I'll take that."
Silence settled again, but it wasn't uncomfortable. The city noise beyond the window seemed muted, as though the world had dimmed itself around their table.
"Leah," he said after a while.
Her fork paused midair. "Yes?"
"There are people who'll try to use what they think they see between us." His tone was careful. "Be aware of that."
She met his eyes steadily. "And what do they see?"
A pause. He didn't answer immediately, and when he did, his voice had dropped lower. "What they want to."
Her breath caught. "And what about you?"
He looked at her directly now, the quiet between them taut. "I see someone who underestimates her own impact."
Her pulse stuttered. "That's—"
"True," he interrupted, gently but firm.
Their gazes held, the hum of the restaurant fading to nothing. She didn't look away first. Neither did he. It was a rare equilibrium, dangerous in its stillness.
Finally, she exhaled, leaning back slightly. "I should be grateful for your honesty."
"Don't mistake honesty for generosity," he said, though his tone had softened. "I don't give it easily."
"I've noticed," she murmured.
The waiter appeared again, breaking the moment, clearing plates that neither had fully finished. When he left, Leah found her hands folded neatly, fingers trembling slightly from a tension she hadn't realized she was holding.
Adrian checked his watch, then looked at her again, expression unreadable. "You should get home. Early meeting tomorrow."
"Of course."
They stood at the same time. For a moment, he moved as if to help her with her coat, then seemed to think better of it. She took it herself, slipping one arm in, then the other. When she turned, he was watching—neutral, polite, restrained.
Outside, the wind had turned cold. The air smelled faintly of rain again.
"Thank you for dinner," she said, tucking her hands into her pockets.
"Thank you for coming," he replied. "You didn't have to."
Leah smiled, small and knowing. "I think I did."
He inclined his head slightly, as though acknowledging a truth they'd both silently agreed not to name.
She turned to leave, her reflection momentarily caught in the glass of the restaurant window—two figures divided by distance and restraint, framed in the same light but walking different paths.
Adrian watched her until she disappeared into the crowd. Then, with a quiet exhale, he slipped his hands into his pockets and walked the other way, the echo of unspoken things following both of them into the night.