The office felt different lately, as if the air itself had adjusted to a quieter rhythm. Conversations drifted softer, footsteps slower, even the printer seemed to hum at a lower pitch. Samantha noticed it most in the mornings, when she arrived before everyone else. The city outside was still half asleep, the light pale, the sound of traffic faint and patient. She liked that hour, before the day decided what it wanted from her. She’d turn on her computer, take a sip of coffee, and breathe in that fragile calm, pretending it could last.  

Nathan’s office light would come on not long after. Without needing to look, she could tell by the way the reflection shifted across the glass wall beside her desk. He never said good morning out loud anymore, but he didn’t need to. Their exchanges had become something subtler—an unspoken acknowledgment, a rhythm that balanced between closeness and restraint.  

The project with the new client was massive, the kind that demanded endless revisions, late nights, and patience none of them really had. But it also meant she and Nathan spent more time together again—reviewing proposals, aligning strategies, trading quiet glances that spoke in their own coded language. Miles had once called it “professional telepathy,” though she preferred not to give it a name.  

On Wednesday evening, the office was nearly empty. Samantha stood by the window, the city lights stretching endlessly below. Nathan was at his desk, sleeves rolled, reading through her notes.  

“You changed the timeline,” he said without looking up.  

“I did. The client pushed the internal review earlier. It made more sense to front-load the presentation prep.”  

He nodded, still focused. “Good call.”  

She turned slightly toward him. “You sound surprised.”  

“I’m not,” he said, finally glancing at her. “Just impressed.”  

She smiled. “That’s new.”  

He gave a faint shrug. “Trying it out.”  

The ease between them had returned, though it carried something more now—a quiet awareness neither had the nerve to name.  

By nine, they were the last ones there. Samantha stretched, closing her laptop.  

“I think I’m done for the night.”  

“Almost,” Nathan said, still typing. “Just need to send this.”  

“You’ll still be here when the cleaning crew leaves.”  

“Occupational hazard.”  

She rolled her eyes. “Text me if you pass out.”  

He smirked. “Noted.”  

She lingered a moment longer than necessary, watching him in the glow of his screen, before forcing herself to leave.  

The following night, she returned to the office for one last round of edits. It was raining again—Luminara never ran out of storms. She could hear the drops hitting the windows in soft, steady patterns, like background music for exhaustion. Nathan was already there when she arrived, jacket draped over the chair, tie gone, shirt sleeves rolled high.  

“Didn’t expect to see you back,” he said without looking up.  

“I forgot to fix one section.”  

“You mean you couldn’t stop thinking about it.”  

She smiled faintly. “Maybe.”  

They worked in companionable silence, the kind that didn’t require small talk. Every so often, she’d glance at him—his focus sharp, posture precise, yet something in the way his fingers lingered over the keyboard betrayed how tired he was.  

“Want coffee?” she asked finally.  

“Please.”  

She brought him a cup from the machine and set it beside him. “Don’t say I never take care of you.”  

He looked up, amused. “I wouldn’t dare.”  

Outside, thunder rolled distantly. Inside, the lights flickered once.  

“Not again,” she muttered.  

“Relax,” he said. “The building’s just old.”  

But a moment later, the power cut out completely.  

For several seconds, there was only darkness and the faint hum of rain. Then emergency lights blinked on, soft and dim, washing the office in pale gray.  

Samantha exhaled. “Guess I jinxed it.”  

Nathan chuckled quietly. “You have a talent.”  

She turned toward him, his silhouette barely visible. “This feels familiar.”  

“It does.”  

“Last time, you tried to sound calm but looked ready to throw the printer out the window.”  

“I don’t recall that.”  

“You do.”  

He smiled in the half-light, a rare, unguarded kind of smile. “Maybe I just needed a reason to stay.”  

Her pulse stuttered. “You could’ve left anytime.”  

“Maybe I didn’t want to.”  

The words landed softly, like something he hadn’t meant to say out loud. She didn’t respond right away. The rain filled the space between them. When the lights flickered back, neither moved.  

Nathan cleared his throat. “Right. We should—finish this.”  

“Yeah,” she said, voice steady again. “Work.”  

They both pretended not to notice the silence that followed.  

By Friday, the presentation was ready. Samantha hadn’t slept properly in days, but the exhaustion felt earned. The team gathered early, everyone running on caffeine and adrenaline. Nathan’s calm was contagious, the kind that anchored the room even when everything else spun too fast.  

When it was her turn to present, Samantha stood beside him. She spoke clearly, confidently, and when she faltered for a split second, Nathan’s quiet nod steadied her again.  

The pitch ended with applause.  

Claire whispered, “You two should present everything together.”  

Samantha laughed under her breath. “Don’t give him ideas.”  

Nathan leaned closer, low enough that only she could hear. “Too late.”  

Afterward, as people mingled and congratulated each other, she stepped aside to breathe. The adrenaline faded, replaced by something quieter—an awareness of him watching her from across the room. Their eyes met through the crowd. For once, neither looked away.