"Not all warm things burn. Some heal."
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, releasing us into the quiet hum of the top-floor corridor. I hadn't realized how heavy my limbs felt until the cool air of the hall hit me. Hours of meetings, signatures, contracts, and the tight set of Sophie's determined jaw had drained us both. She hid it well; better than I did, but even she had begun rubbing her temples somewhere around document number forty-three.
A break was overdue.
We walked side by side toward the cafeteria. The place was unusually calm at this hour. A few staff members sat scattered around; low murmurs blended with the distant clatter of trays. The scent of roasted beans drifted through the space, warm and grounding.
"I'll order," I told her.
She didn't argue, just let out a soft sigh of relief and slipped into one of the corner tables. The kind of corner spot she always picked—close to a wall, view of the room, never the center. A habit carved from years of needing to see everything coming. I understood that too well.
The barista handed me two cups. Steam curled from the lids, and for a moment, the simple heat pressed into my palms in a way that didn't feel threatening. I breathed out, letting my chest loosen.
When I reached the table, Sophie looked up at me with that small smile that always caught me off guard.
"Proud of you," she said. "Trying out hot drinks."
I sat down across from her, setting the cups between us. "Yeah, well... I'm not going to let the past dictate every part of my life. Not all hot things mean bad."
Her smile widened; not the kind she gave the public, not the polite or practiced ones. This was softer. Warmer. The kind she only ever saved for quiet places like this.
"You're doing amazing," she said.
Her praise always hit deeper than she probably realized.
She took a sip of her coffee immediately, humming in approval. I... stared at mine. The steam still made me hesitate, old memories tugging at the back of my mind like stubborn shadows.
She raised her eyebrow at me. "What?"
"I'm... adjusting," I muttered.
She laughed—quiet but genuine. The kind of laugh that made people turn their heads. She had that effect: she didn't need to try to get attention. She simply existed, and the world noticed.
That was when she looked past me, eyes narrowing for a second. I followed her gaze.
Mrs. Kent and Janice were across the room, dramatically whispering with so much enthusiasm it was almost impressive. Their eyes flicked to us every few seconds like two owls pretending not to be watching.
I snorted. "They love to gossip. I bet right now we're the main topic."
Sophie rolled her eyes. "Of course, we are. They have nothing else to talk about."
I tilted my head, watching the faint tint of pink rise to her cheeks. She could face board members twice her age without blinking, but the smallest social nonsense irritated her more than any hostile takeover ever could.
"Should we give them something to talk about?"
She blinked. "What do you—"
I didn't let her finish.
I leaned forward and kissed her.
Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just... gentle. Certain. The kind of kiss that doesn't need to prove anything but still says everything.
When I pulled away, her cheeks were bright red. Glowing. She immediately grabbed her cup and stared at it intensely, as if it contained the secrets of the universe.
I couldn't help the quiet laugh that escaped me. She looked adorable when she got flustered—adorable in a way she'd deny until her last breath. The strongest woman I knew, undone by one simple moment.
I moved my chair closer—not dramatically, just enough for her to feel the shift of air, enough for our knees to brush. She tensed for half a second, then melted into the new distance, still pretending she wasn't affected.
The cafeteria noise faded around us. It was just her and me. The soft clink of cups. The warmth between us that didn't need words.
I watched her, and for a moment I let myself feel everything.
How far we'd come.
How deeply she'd carved her place into my life.
How fiercely I wanted to protect her; not because she was fragile, but because she had survived too much to ever be alone again.
She finally looked up, meeting my eyes.
"What?" she whispered.
"Nothing," I said, unable to stop the small smile pulling at my mouth. "Just... you."
Her blush deepened, but she didn't look away this time.
And in that moment, surrounded by the scent of coffee and the soft rumble of distant conversations, I realized something:
Loving her didn't feel like chaos.
Didn't feel like fear.
Didn't feel like the past I'd been running from.
Loving her felt like standing in a quiet room after a storm, finally able to breathe again.
And I wasn't planning on letting that go.