For a while, everything felt steady. Not simple—nothing ever was—but manageable.  

Samantha settled back into the rhythm of the office, the quiet pulse of keys and the hum of the printer.  

Work flowed, meetings ran on time, and Nathan seemed almost... lighter.  

She didn’t know what changed first—him or her.  

Maybe both.  

Their conversations had softened into something that existed between professional and personal, a gray space neither of them named.  

When she passed him notes in meetings, he didn’t just glance—he read, and nodded, sometimes even smiled.  

The smallest acknowledgments had begun to carry weight.  

One morning, as she handed him a folder, their fingers brushed.  

It was nothing. It was everything.  

Miles noticed first, of course.  

“You two are terrifying,” he said, stirring his coffee. “All those meaningful silences. It’s like watching a foreign film with no subtitles.”  

Samantha shot him a look. “You’re imagining things.”  

“Oh, absolutely,” he said. “That’s why he looks at you like you’re about to drop a plot twist.”  

“Go work, Miles.”  

“Working on my people-watching skills. They’re excellent.”  

She laughed, but later, sitting at her desk, his words lingered.  

Because he wasn’t entirely wrong.  

Something subtle had shifted.  

It wasn’t tension anymore—it was attention.  

And attention was always dangerous.  

The week blurred. Projects stacked, calls filled the air, and deadlines loomed like old habits.  

Friday began with rain.  

Nathan stood by the window, staring out at the skyline. The reflection of the city lights made his office look like a room inside a storm.  

Samantha stepped in, holding a printed report. “The revisions for the proposal.”  

He took it, their hands almost touching again. “You stayed late for this?”  

She shrugged. “Didn’t want it hanging over the weekend.”  

He hesitated, then said, “You didn’t have to.”  

“I know.”  

They stood in silence for a beat too long, until she cleared her throat. “You’ll have feedback by Monday?”  

“Sunday,” he said automatically.  

She smiled. “Of course.”  

When she turned to leave, his voice stopped her.  

“Samantha.”  

She looked back.  

“Thanks.”  

It wasn’t the word—it was how he said it, like he wasn’t used to meaning it.  

She nodded. “You’re welcome.”  

And just like that, the fragile balance held.  

Until Monday.  

It started with an email—innocent, careless, ordinary.  

She’d sent a draft of their presentation to the team, copying Nathan and Claire.  

Claire replied-all with a note: *“Looks like Samantha took some creative liberties again.”*  

A teasing tone, but written words never carried tone well.  

Nathan’s response came five minutes later: *“Let’s keep to the approved format next time.”*  

Short.  

Professional.  

Cold.  

Samantha read it three times, each one duller than the last.  

She knew he probably meant nothing by it.  

She also knew it felt like something anyway.  

Miles peeked over her shoulder. “Oof. That’s... direct.”  

“It’s fine,” she said quickly.  

“Sure. And I’m the Pope.”  

“Miles.”  

He raised his hands. “Alright. Just—don’t let it fester.”  

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. The silence was answer enough.  

The rest of the day moved with mechanical precision.  

Samantha worked. Nathan reviewed. They spoke only when necessary.  

Every exchange felt filtered, cautious, measured.  

When she brought him a document, he said “thank you” without looking up.  

When he asked a question, she answered with one-line sentences.  

By five o’clock, the air between them had turned into glass—transparent but impenetrable.  

Claire stopped by on her way out. “Everything alright?”  

“Of course,” Samantha said, smiling too brightly.  

“Good. Nathan seemed... off.”  

“He’s always like that.”  

Claire studied her for a moment. “Not with you.”  

Samantha’s smile stiffened. “Night, Claire.”  

When the door closed, she finally exhaled.  

That night, she told herself it didn’t matter.  

People miscommunicated all the time.  

It wasn’t worth overthinking.  

But her reflection in the window didn’t buy it.  

She sat on the couch with her laptop open, staring at the same slide for ten minutes.  

She typed a message: *About earlier—*  

Then deleted it.  

Typed again: *Did I do something wrong?*  

Deleted that too.  

She closed the laptop.  

The rain outside had returned, tapping against the glass like it wanted to be let in.  

Nathan, miles away, sat in his office, the same storm playing against his windows.  

He hadn’t meant to sound sharp.  

He’d just been tired—meetings, numbers, Claire’s teasing.  

He’d read Samantha’s email too fast, replied even faster,  

and only later realized the message he might’ve sent without meaning to.  

He drafted an apology twice, stopped both times.  

He didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t make it worse.  

When Miles dropped by his office the next morning with a grin, Nathan looked up, wary.  

“She’s not mad, you know,” Miles said.  

Nathan frowned. “Who?”  

“Don’t play dumb. It’s not your strong suit.”  

He didn’t reply.  

Miles leaned against the door. “You ever consider that maybe she’s not waiting for an apology, just... acknowledgment?”  

Nathan stared at him. “You sound like a therapist.”  

“Occupational hazard. I watch people screw up for a living.”  

“Duly noted.”  

Miles smiled, but his eyes were kind. “Just talk to her, Reed. Before the silence gets louder than you can handle.”  

By Wednesday, it already had.  

Samantha avoided his gaze in meetings.  

He noticed every time.  

When she passed him a report, her handwriting on the post-it was neater than usual, almost formal.  

When he thanked her, she nodded without looking up.  

He didn’t blame her.  

He just didn’t know how to fix it.  

The words that used to come easily now felt weighted, like everything carried consequence.  

That afternoon, he walked by her desk, paused, and said, “Do you have a minute?”  

“Sure,” she said, tone neutral.  

He waited until the door closed behind her.  

Then: “About that email.”  

“It’s fine.”  

“It wasn’t.”  

She folded her arms. “You were right about the format.”  

“That’s not what I meant.”  

“Then what did you mean?”  

He hesitated. “I meant I didn’t think before I typed.”  

“Noted.”  

“Samantha—”  

She shook her head. “It’s fine, Nathan. Really.”  

He wanted to believe her. He couldn’t.  

She left before he could say anything else.  

When the door shut, he leaned against his desk,  

and for the first time in weeks, the office felt exactly as it had before she’d walked into his life—  

perfectly organized, perfectly silent, perfectly unbearable.