Tuesday morning came with the kind of light that made Luminara City look deceptively calm. Samantha stood in line at the corner café, trying to convince herself she was a functioning adult. The barista called her name—half wrong, as always—and handed over a paper cup that said “Samanta.” She smiled anyway. Almost right counted for something.

At the office, the elevator opened to a blur of motion: new faces, new schedules, the low hum of collective exhaustion. She’d survived week one at Reed Tech, and that alone felt like an accomplishment. Miles waved from across the hall, holding two muffins and the smug confidence of someone who hadn’t read their inbox yet.

“Morning, survivor,” he said. “You look less terrified. Progress.”

“I’m aiming for mild panic today,” she replied, setting her coffee down. “Where’s Nathan?”

“In a meeting with the board. The man collects meetings like other people collect stress.”

“That’s ironic.”

“Welcome to management.”

Before she could answer, Claire appeared with a clipboard. “Update—team restructuring. You and Nathan are being paired for the Marston expansion project.”

Samantha blinked. “Paired? As in… daily contact?”

“Hourly, probably.” Claire handed her a folder. “He requested you.”

That stopped her. “He… did?”

Claire grinned. “Don’t look so alarmed. It’s a compliment. Sort of.”

Miles leaned in. “This is how it begins.”

She ignored him, mostly. “Okay. Sure. Great. Totally fine.”

She was not totally fine.

By ten, she was sitting across from Nathan in a smaller glass meeting room that smelled faintly of sanitizer and determination. He had already drawn up a schedule—columns, subheadings, timelines that looked suspiciously military.

“I thought we could split responsibilities,” he said. “You handle coordination and client communication. I’ll manage internal deliverables.”

“Got it,” she said. “I speak fluent panic and partial optimism.”

He glanced up, brow raised. “You’ll need both.”

She smiled faintly. “Already packed.”

They fell into rhythm faster than she expected. He dictated updates; she translated them into human language. Somewhere between spreadsheets and shared drives, they began to understand each other’s shorthand. It wasn’t easy, but it worked.

At noon, she caught him standing by the window, scanning his phone with a frown that looked more thoughtful than angry. She hesitated, then said, “You ever take lunch?”

He looked up, distracted. “Sometimes.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He sighed, placing the phone face down. “There’s a place on 5th. Good sandwiches.”

“That sounded dangerously like a suggestion.”

“Maybe it was.”

Five minutes later, they were walking down the street, the city buzzing around them—traffic, chatter, the faint sound of someone playing saxophone near the subway stairs. Nathan walked with his hands in his pockets, posture precise even off-duty. Samantha matched her pace to his, trying not to overthink the absurd normalcy of it.

They ordered, sat by the window. She peeled the wrapper off her sandwich, then glanced at him. “Do you ever relax?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Barely. You look like you’re planning your next move.”

He gave her a look that wasn’t quite defensive. “Planning keeps things from falling apart.”

“Sometimes things fall apart anyway.”

He didn’t reply right away. “That’s not an excuse not to try.”

For a moment, the noise outside faded. She studied him—the careful tone, the quiet precision, the exhaustion he never admitted. He wasn’t heartless. Just built from a different kind of control.

“Do you ever just… let a day happen?” she asked.

He tilted his head. “You mean without organizing it?”

“Yeah.”

He considered that, then said, “I’d probably make a list about it.”

She laughed, soft and genuine. “That’s tragic.”

“Efficient,” he corrected, but there was warmth in it.

The afternoon turned into a blur of charts and calls. The new project was demanding, but something about working beside him steadied her. He listened when she spoke, remembered small details, and never made her feel invisible. That, she realized, was rarer than she’d thought.

At six, most of the floor emptied out. Samantha leaned back, stretching her arms. “You know what’s weird?” she said.

Nathan didn’t look up. “Everything?”

“Fair. But also—how this feels almost normal.”

He paused, finally meeting her eyes. “Almost?”

“Yeah. Like I’m waiting for the part where everything collapses.”

“That’s an exhausting way to live.”

“It’s reliable.”

He studied her for a beat too long. “You don’t have to expect disaster every time something works.”

“Experience suggests otherwise.”

He didn’t argue. He just nodded, as if he understood more than he let on.

At seven, she packed up, promising herself she’d go straight home. She almost did.

Nathan stayed behind after she left, reviewing notes under the sterile office light.  

She was efficient, unpredictable, and far too easy to notice.  

He caught himself thinking about the lunch conversation, the way she’d said *sometimes things fall apart anyway*.  

It sounded less like cynicism and more like truth learned the hard way.  

He rubbed a hand across his jaw, shaking off the thought, and returned to his screen. But even as numbers filled his vision, he could still hear her laugh—low, unforced, the kind that didn’t belong in a spreadsheet.  

He worked another hour before finally shutting down the computer.  

That night, Samantha sat by her apartment window, a cup of tea cooling beside her.  

She’d meant to watch something mindless, but her thoughts kept circling back to the day—the unexpected ease of conversation, the subtle shifts in tone that didn’t feel like work.  

Her phone buzzed. Gideon: *Art exhibit tomorrow night. You in?*  

She stared at the screen, then typed: *I might have to stay late.*  

He replied with a single emoji that looked unimpressed.  

She smiled, closing the chat. The truth was, she didn’t mind staying late anymore. That realization startled her more than she wanted to admit.  

She looked out at Luminara—the skyline glowing like it had secrets. Somewhere out there, Nathan was probably still awake, organizing chaos into order.  

Samantha sipped her tea and whispered into the quiet, “Almost normal. That’s progress.”