The week passed like a reel on repeat—orders, red lights, elevators, corridors, more orders.  

Bix Kutra kept moving through it all, the city flashing by like a broken video game that never ended.

He still delivered to Juenhoo Capital Tower now and then. Every time he stepped into that lobby, the same sterile air greeted him, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered if she was there.  

Lilia Quell. The woman who had spoken up for him once, as easily as she might close a folder.

He never saw her again, but the memory lingered. Her face, calm yet certain; her voice, unshaken.  

For someone like him—used to being invisible—that moment had carved itself too deeply.  

Sometimes he thought about thanking her again. But the thought always collapsed before it reached his lips.  

Their worlds were divided not by walls, but by altitude. She was eleven floors up. He lived on street level.

Friday came, heavy and humid.  

When Ryan Floy texted: *No deliveries tonight. We’re hitting a bar*, Bix almost said no.  

Then he stared at the message a second longer, shrugged, and replied, *Fine. One drink.*

The bar they chose was nothing like their usual corner spots. **Velvet Arc**—the kind of place where the walls gleamed black and the menu didn’t show prices.  

“Man,” Bix muttered as they stepped in, “this place probably charges per breath.”  

“Relax,” Ryan said, grinning. “Tonight, we pretend we’re upper management.”

The music was slow jazz, the lighting dim enough to make everyone look like they had secrets. The air smelled of citrus and money.  

They took a table near the back. Ryan and the others immediately began scanning the room, eyes flicking toward groups of men in suits and women in dresses worth more than their bikes.  

Bix ordered the cheapest drink he could pronounce and tried to blend in.

Then, as the bartender slid his glass over, he saw her.

Sitting alone at the bar, hair slightly undone, a black sleeveless top catching the amber light.  

Lilia Quell.  

He froze.  

Even in the haze of smoke and sound, she was unmistakable. But she looked different—quieter, distant. The cool armor of her office self seemed to have loosened; she was simply… human. Her fingers tapped the rim of her glass in an absent rhythm, eyes fixed somewhere inside the drink.

Ryan followed his gaze. “Oh no. Don’t tell me you’re looking at her.”

Bix blinked. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you who she is.”

Ryan smirked. “You planning to talk to her?”

“No.”

“You’re thinking about it.”

Bix didn’t answer. He took a sip, and the bitterness hit him like permission.

“I’m serious, man,” Ryan whispered. “That woman’s out of our tax bracket. She probably owns this place.”

Bix laughed softly, more to himself than to his friends. “I just want to say thank you.”

“Thank you? For what? Existing?” Ryan rolled his eyes. “You’re drunk already.”

“I’ve had one sip.”

“Then you’re insane.”

Maybe. But the decision had already started inside him.  

He pushed back his chair.  

Ryan stared. “You’re actually doing it?”

Another friend snorted. “If he gets rejected, at least it’ll be in five-star lighting.”

Bix ignored them. He stood, heart knocking against his ribs like a faulty engine. The bar’s music swelled and dipped as he crossed the room, each step a little too aware of itself.

At the counter, he stopped beside her.  

Lilia turned, perhaps sensing movement, and their eyes met.  

Her surprise lasted only a second before recognition settled in.

“You’re the delivery guy,” she said, her voice steady but softer than he remembered.

“Yeah.” He nodded awkwardly. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Neither did I.” She gestured toward her half-finished drink. “Rough week.”

He smiled faintly. “I know the feeling.”

She regarded him for a moment, then said, “You don’t seem like the Velvet Arc type.”

“Trust me, I’m not.” He chuckled. “My friends wanted to ‘experience luxury.’ I’m just trying to make my one drink last all night.”

That made her laugh—a real one this time, light but genuine.  

“Well,” she said, “at least you’re honest.”

“Honesty usually just makes me sound broke.”

Her smile deepened, something amused flickering in her eyes.  

Behind him, at the far table, his friends were all watching, whispering like kids witnessing a miracle.

Bix leaned slightly closer, keeping his tone careful, almost shy. “Anyway… I never got to thank you properly. For that day. Outside your building.”

Lilia looked at him, her expression unreadable for a beat. Then she nodded slowly.  

“You don’t need to thank me. It really was nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing to me,” he said quietly.  

For a moment, the noise around them seemed to thin. She looked at him again—really looked this time—and for the first time, didn’t seem in a hurry to look away.

“I see,” she said at last, voice soft. Then she turned back to her glass, tapping the rim once more, the sound blending back into the music.

Behind him, his friends were holding their breath.  

One of them muttered, “He’s either crazy or in love.”  

The other replied, “Same thing.”