The applause from the Marston presentation had faded into memory by Monday. Success, Samantha discovered, didn’t echo—it dissolved. The office moved on before she had even caught her breath. Deadlines replaced celebrations, and Nathan had already scheduled the next review before lunch.  

For a while, that pace felt like safety. Noise was easier than stillness. When you were running, no one could ask if you were happy.  

“Morning, overachiever,” Miles said, sliding a folder onto her desk. “Your inbox is weeping.”  

She glanced at the subject lines. New projects, new crises. “It never ends.”  

“Would you really want it to?”  

She hesitated. “Maybe not.”  

He grinned. “That’s how they get you.”  

She smirked, but the truth sat heavy. She’d gotten used to the rhythm of motion—the steady hum of responsibility, the glow of screens long after sunset. The quiet that followed victory felt wrong, like a song that ended mid-note.  

By afternoon, Claire called a quick huddle. “New client. Fast turnaround. Big potential.”  

Samantha skimmed the brief. The words *urgent, premium, investor meeting* blurred together like caffeine-induced déjà vu. Nathan stood beside Claire, posture straight, voice calm as he outlined the timeline—five days, no margin for error.  

He looked at Samantha. “You’ll coordinate the proposal.”  

“Of course,” she said automatically.  

He nodded once, the kind of gesture that carried trust without praise. She’d grown to read his silences that way.  

When the meeting ended, Miles muttered, “Five days. That’s a human rights violation.”  

“Think of it as cardio,” she replied.  

He sighed. “You need hobbies that don’t involve spreadsheets.”  

She was about to answer when Nathan appeared again, handing her a revised outline. “Start with this. I’ll handle the data section tonight.”  

“Tonight?”  

He raised a brow. “You weren’t planning to leave on time, were you?”  

She smiled despite herself. “Not anymore.”  

By eight, the office was nearly empty. Rain tapped against the windows, soft and steady. Samantha sat surrounded by open tabs and half-finished slides, her focus drifting in and out like the city lights.  

Nathan’s door was open, lamplight spilling across his desk. He was typing, expression unreadable. She wondered if he ever stopped to notice the sound of his own exhaustion.  

Around nine, he stepped out, jacket over his arm. “Dinner?”  

She blinked. “You mean now?”  

He nodded. “If we’re working late, we might as well eat something not from a vending machine.”  

The restaurant downstairs was quiet—low lighting, rain streaking the glass. They ordered quickly. For a while, neither spoke. The silence wasn’t awkward, just careful.  

Samantha finally said, “You ever feel weird after finishing a big project? Like you’re supposed to feel proud, but mostly you just… reset?”  

Nathan considered. “Success doesn’t last long enough to get comfortable with it.”  

“That’s depressing.”  

“It’s honest.”  

She watched him stir his tea absently, sleeves rolled, tie loose. “Do you ever stop?”  

“From what?”  

“Everything.”  

He gave a short laugh that wasn’t quite humor. “I don’t know how.”  

Her chest tightened at the simplicity of it. “Maybe you should learn.”  

“Maybe,” he said, but the word carried no conviction.  

When the food arrived, she was grateful for the interruption. They talked about nothing—the rain, the city, the weirdness of office coffee. Beneath the small talk, something softer lingered: the relief of being understood without needing to explain.  

By the time they went back upstairs, the rain had stopped, leaving streaks on the glass like fingerprints.  

The following days became a loop of meetings and late nights. Samantha found herself finishing his sentences, predicting his adjustments, aligning with his pace without meaning to.  

Miles teased her endlessly. “You two have officially merged calendars,” he said.  

“Coincidence.”  

“Sure. Next thing I know, you’ll start dressing alike.”  

She rolled her eyes, but when she glanced at Nathan later—white shirt, sleeves rolled—she realized she’d done the same that morning. She decided not to mention it.  

Gideon texted that night: *You alive?*  

*Define alive,* she replied.  

*You need air. Dinner this weekend.*  

*Maybe. We’re swamped.*  

He sent back a sigh emoji. *You used to blame traffic, not deadlines.*  

She stared at the message for a long time before setting the phone aside.  

Thursday night stretched longer than it should have. The pitch rehearsal dragged past ten. Samantha’s throat ached from talking, her fingers sore from typing.  

Nathan noticed. “You should stop for the night.”  

“You’re still working.”  

“That’s different.”  

“How?”  

“I’m used to it.”  

She shook her head. “That’s not an answer.”  

He looked at her, the corner of his mouth softening. “Neither is yours.”  

Their eyes met, and something in the space between them shifted—subtle, but enough to notice.  

Miles had once joked that tension was just unspoken truth waiting for bad timing. She understood that now.  

They worked another hour in silence. At midnight, Nathan finally stood. “Go home, Samantha.”  

“You?”  

“I’ll wrap up.”  

She hesitated, then said quietly, “You don’t have to carry all of it.”  

He looked almost startled. “It’s my job.”  

“It’s not all on you.”  

He said nothing, but she saw the flicker in his expression—the smallest crack in his composure.  

She left before the air between them grew too heavy.  

Nathan stayed behind, staring at the glowing screen. Her words looped in his head: *You don’t have to carry all of it.*  

He didn’t know how to explain that carrying things was the only way he knew how to exist. The silence pressed in, and for once, he didn’t fight it.  

When he finally turned off the lights, the reflection in the glass looked like someone else entirely.  

Friday came, and with it, the final meeting. The pitch went well. The client was impressed. Claire was ecstatic. Miles made celebratory jokes.  

Samantha smiled, nodded, and clapped at the right moments, but her mind was elsewhere.  

After the meeting, she lingered by the window. The city stretched below—vivid, endless, indifferent.  

Nathan joined her quietly. “You did good work.”  

“So did you.”  

He nodded, eyes on the skyline. “Does it ever feel like it’s never enough?”  

She turned toward him. “All the time.”  

He exhaled slowly. “Then why do we keep going?”  

“Maybe we’re afraid of what happens if we stop.”  

He looked at her then, not as a colleague but as someone who’d asked a question he didn’t know how to answer.  

“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe we just don’t know who we are without the noise.”  

The honesty of it lingered.  

Samantha smiled faintly. “For what it’s worth, I think the silence would like you.”  

He blinked, almost laughing. “I doubt that.”  

“Then you haven’t tried listening to it yet.”  

That evening, Miles dragged the team to a rooftop bar. Music, lights, laughter. Samantha tried to match the mood, but her thoughts drifted. Gideon texted again: *Still awake? Come join.*  

She typed, *I’m already out.* Then deleted it. Then typed again: *Next time.*  

Nathan was across the bar, half-listening to Claire, his expression unreadable. Their eyes met briefly across the crowd. He raised his glass slightly. She returned the gesture.  

The distance between them wasn’t physical—it was built of restraint and understanding, the kind that came from knowing a single word could shift everything.  

By midnight, the party blurred into laughter and lights. Samantha slipped out quietly.  

Outside, the night air was cool, her heels clicking softly against the pavement. Luminara pulsed around her—alive, imperfect, endlessly moving.  

She pulled out her phone and opened a blank message to Nathan.  

She typed: *Do you ever stop planning everything?*  

Then she stared at it for a long time.  

The cursor blinked like a heartbeat.  

Finally, she hit delete, slipped the phone back into her pocket, and looked up at the city that refused to sleep.  

For once, she didn’t rush home. She just stood there, letting the noise settle into quiet, the kind that didn’t demand an answer.