The next morning, Samantha arrived before sunrise, partly because she couldn’t sleep and partly because the quiet hours made her feel in control of something. The office was still dark except for the faint glow from the vending machine, humming like a half-awake companion.  

She set her coffee on her desk, opened her notebook, and stared at the page she’d written the night before: *Keep the part that feels true.*  

It felt like a challenge and a comfort all at once.  

When the lights flicked on automatically, she jumped. Nathan’s reflection appeared in the glass wall beside her.  

“You’re early,” he said, voice still soft with morning.  

“So are you,” she replied.  

“I live close,” he said, walking past her desk. His tie wasn’t knotted yet, sleeves rolled. “It saves time.”  

“Do you schedule your sleep, too?”  

“If I could, I would.”  

He set his tablet down on the nearest table, eyes scanning lines of text faster than humanly reasonable. “We have a presentation at nine. Client’s name is Marston. He’s old money with new expectations.”  

“Translation: he wants miracles but pays in gratitude.”  

Nathan looked up, and for a second, amusement softened the sharpness in his expression. “Something like that.”  

They worked in near silence for the next hour, the rhythm of typing and muted footsteps filling the air. Every now and then, he’d glance toward her notes, not to correct but to confirm. She liked that—his quiet trust disguised as efficiency.  

At nine, they entered the conference room together. The glass table gleamed under the ceiling lights. Marston was already there, his suit immaculate, his tone polite but dismissive.  

Nathan handled him like he handled everything—calmly, precisely, letting logic replace argument. Samantha watched, adding small clarifications when necessary, mostly trying not to spill her water.  

Halfway through, Marston interrupted. “So, what makes your team different from the last firm I fired?”  

Nathan didn’t flinch. “We listen before we fix things.”  

The silence afterward stretched thin. Marston finally nodded. “Good answer.”  

Samantha caught herself holding her breath. Nathan’s gaze flicked toward her, the smallest acknowledgment that he’d noticed.  

When the meeting ended, Marston shook Nathan’s hand, then turned to Samantha. “You’re new.”  

“Yes, sir.”  

“Don’t let this place eat you alive.”  

She smiled faintly. “I’ll try to snack first.”  

Marston actually laughed before leaving. Nathan exhaled quietly beside her. “That went better than expected.”  

“I didn’t spill anything. That’s progress.”  

He gave her a brief nod, something almost like pride hiding behind professionalism. “You handled yourself well.”  

The rest of the morning blurred into follow-up calls and emails. By lunch, her brain felt like static. Miles appeared again, holding two sandwiches and an expression that said he’d been waiting for gossip.  

“Tell me everything,” he demanded.  

“Meeting survived. Client didn’t bite. Nathan may be human.”  

“Shocking. Did he smile again?”  

“Once. I think it was a glitch.”  

Miles grinned. “Keep logging anomalies. Eventually we’ll understand his species.”  

After he left, Samantha leaned back, watching the city spread out beyond the glass. Luminara looked different in daylight—less intimidating, more alive. She could almost feel herself settling into the rhythm of it, like learning to breathe with the city instead of against it.  

At three, Nathan called her into his office again. “Close the door,” he said. She obeyed, immediately imagining worst-case scenarios.  

Instead, he gestured to a folder. “Marston sent feedback. He’s impressed.”  

“Seriously?”  

“He used the word ‘competent.’ That’s basically a standing ovation.”  

Samantha laughed. “I’ll take it.”  

He leaned back, studying her. “You adapt quickly.”  

“I panic efficiently.”  

“That’s a skill,” he said. “Not everyone does both.”  

She raised a brow. “Is that a compliment?”  

“Don’t let it go to your head.”  

He looked back at his laptop, but the edge of his mouth curved slightly.  

When she left his office, she felt something she hadn’t in a long time—stability. Not the kind built on routine, but the kind that came from being useful.  

The day ended slowly, sunlight shifting from gold to gray. Samantha stayed behind to finish notes, headphones in but no music playing. She liked the illusion of sound—it made the silence less heavy.  

Across the hall, Nathan was still working. She could see him through the glass—focused, still, framed by the city’s glow. For a moment, she wondered what it must be like to live inside that kind of discipline, to measure every movement against purpose.  

Then, without meaning to, she smiled. Maybe she didn’t need to understand him. Maybe it was enough to work beside someone who didn’t scare her anymore.  

By eight, she finally packed her things. The office was nearly empty again. As she walked past Nathan’s door, she paused. “Heading out,” she said.  

He looked up. “Good work today.”  

“Thanks. Try not to sleep here.”  

“I’ll consider it.”  

She hesitated. “Nathan?”  

“Yes?”  

“You ever stop thinking about work?”  

His answer was soft but honest. “Not really.”  

“Maybe you should.”  

He didn’t reply, but the silence felt less like avoidance and more like thought.  

She smiled and left.  

---

Outside, the night air was cooler than before. She walked without hurry, the city humming quietly around her. The rhythm of her heels echoed against the pavement, blending into the low sound of distant music and streetlights buzzing awake.  

When she reached her apartment, she kicked off her shoes and stood by the window. From here, Luminara looked endless—each light a tiny heartbeat. She brewed tea instead of coffee, opened her notebook, and wrote a single line:  

*Maybe belonging isn’t a place. Maybe it’s a person—or a moment you almost miss.*  

She stared at the sentence for a long while, unsure if she meant it, but unwilling to erase it.  

Somewhere across the city, Nathan was likely still at his desk, aligning something into perfect order. She wondered if he ever looked up from his screens long enough to notice how beautiful the world became when it stopped asking for perfection.  

Samantha closed her notebook, the sound small but final. She set it beside her cup, pulled the blanket over her knees, and watched the city breathe.  

For the first time in months, she didn’t feel lost—just in motion, and maybe, that was enough.