The rain began without warning that evening. One of those sudden city storms that turned the skyline into smudged silver and drowned the steady pulse of traffic beneath it. The building's glass walls trembled faintly under the sound.
Leah sat alone in the communications office, half-finished coffee cooling beside her. Everyone else had gone home hours ago, but she stayed—partly for the quiet, partly for the thoughts she wasn't ready to face outside these walls.
Adrian's words from earlier echoed in her head."Don't lose what makes you different."
It shouldn't have mattered so much, but it did. Because coming from him—someone who seemed untouchable—it felt like permission to breathe.
She was scrolling through a document when a low voice startled her.
"You're still here."
She turned. Adrian stood in the doorway, his tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, rain misting his shoulders. He must have just come from a meeting—or from the roof, knowing him.
Leah blinked. "So are you."
He stepped inside. "I had to approve the final investor draft." His gaze flicked to the window. "And apparently the storm decided to keep me hostage."
A faint smile tugged at her lips. "The city likes drama."
"So do people," he said, his tone lighter than usual.
She arched a brow. "Are you calling me dramatic, Mr. Reynolds?"
"Not yet."
It was the yet that did it—the teasing note so rare she almost missed it. He wasn't the CEO now; he was simply a man standing in the half-light, rain at his back, carrying exhaustion that looked too familiar.
He walked closer, each step measured. "You've been working since morning."
"And you've been working since forever," she countered.
His eyes softened, a flicker of amusement hidden there. "Touché."
Lightning flashed outside, washing the room in white. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air carried that peculiar stillness that came before either honesty or regret.
"Do storms make you nervous?" he asked quietly.
"No," she said, shaking her head. "They remind me things can change fast. That control isn't real."
His expression shifted—something between understanding and melancholy. "Control keeps things from falling apart."
"Maybe," she said, looking back at her screen, "but sometimes holding too tightly breaks them faster."
When she turned again, he was studying her as though her words had landed somewhere deeper than she intended.
"Is that what you think I do?" he asked.
She hesitated. "I think you're afraid of what happens if you let go."
The sound of rain filled the silence that followed. Then, softly—"Maybe I am."
Leah swallowed. She hadn't expected him to admit it.
He stepped to the window, hands in his pockets, eyes lost in the blurred city lights. "When you build everything on control, you don't realize how lonely it becomes."
She wanted to say something, but words felt clumsy. So instead, she stood and walked to him. Close enough that she could see the reflection of lightning in his eyes.
"Then maybe it's time to let someone in," she said.
He turned, and for a moment, the air between them was alive—breathing, uncertain, real.
"Be careful, Leah," he murmured. "You have a way of making people forget their defenses."
Her heart skipped. "And you have a way of reminding people why they built them."
A faint smile—tired, genuine—touched his mouth. "We're both very inconvenient, then."
The next flash of lightning was brighter, closer. Instinctively, she flinched. He noticed—the smallest movement, but enough. His hand brushed her arm, a barely-there touch meant to steady. Warm. Grounding.
Their eyes met, and the world outside the glass disappeared.
For a breath, nothing existed but the sound of rain and the closeness of something neither dared name. His thumb lingered near her wrist, as if memorizing her pulse.
Then he exhaled, stepped back, and the distance returned. "I should go before the streets flood."
Leah nodded, trying not to show the tremor in her chest. "Right. Of course."
He hesitated near the door, as though leaving felt heavier than it should. "Lock up when you're done."
"I will."
He turned to go, but paused again, voice softer this time. "Leah—"
"Yes?"
"Don't let the storm convince you it's permanent. They never are."
And then he was gone.
She stood there long after the echo of his footsteps faded, her heart racing in the stillness. The rain outside had softened to a quiet drizzle, like the city was exhaling with her.
She gathered her things slowly, shutting down the computer, switching off the lights one by one. But when she reached the hallway, she noticed something. Adrian's office door was still slightly open, a faint glow spilling out.
Curiosity—or something else—guided her closer.
He was there, sitting behind his desk, head bowed, a glass of water untouched beside the keyboard. His phone lay open, displaying a photo of an older man she'd seen once before in a magazine—the late founder of the company.
Adrian didn't notice her at first. His expression was unreadable, but the weight in his shoulders spoke louder than words.
She lingered at the doorway. "You said you were leaving."
He looked up, startled but not angry. "I was."
"Couldn't?" she asked gently.
He shook his head. "Just needed a minute."
Leah stepped inside, quietly. "He was your father, wasn't he?"
Adrian's jaw tightened. "Yes."
"I didn't mean to—"
"It's fine." His voice was calm, but his fingers gripped the edge of the desk. "He built this empire on precision and rules. Sometimes I think I've spent my entire life trying to outdo a ghost."
Leah didn't move closer, but her presence softened the air. "Maybe he'd be proud."
Adrian gave a short, humorless laugh. "Pride was never part of the equation."
"Then maybe it's time you rewrite it."
He met her gaze again, and something in his eyes shifted—a recognition, a weary gratitude. "You always say things like that."
"Like what?"
"Things that sound simple but make everything harder."
She smiled faintly. "That's usually how truth works."
He leaned back, studying her quietly. "You're not afraid of me, are you?"
"No," she said without hesitation. "I see you."
He inhaled slowly, as if the words hit somewhere he didn't want them to. Then he looked away. "Go home, Leah."
She nodded, but before she left, she said softly, "You don't have to carry it all alone, Adrian. Not anymore."
He didn't answer, but when she turned to go, his whisper followed her through the quiet.
"Goodnight, Leah."
Outside, the rain had stopped completely. The streets glistened under the lamplight, and somewhere behind her, in the high glass tower, a man who had built walls around everything he touched finally allowed one to crack.