The post-presentation haze carried through the afternoon. The office buzzed with leftover adrenaline, the kind that made everyone talk louder, laugh easier, pretend exhaustion didn’t exist. Samantha sat at her desk, replying to emails she wasn’t reading, replaying the morning in fragments—the rhythm of her voice during the pitch, the small nod Nathan gave when she caught herself before stumbling, the brief applause that felt like validation and relief tangled together.  

Miles appeared, balancing two cups of coffee. “To surviving,” he declared, setting one on her desk.  

“To barely surviving,” she corrected.  

“Same thing,” he said, clinking his cup against hers. “You were great in there. Even Claire looked impressed, and that woman’s soul is made of spreadsheets.”  

“High praise.”  

“From her? Practically divine.”  

She smiled, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”  

“And yet entirely right.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Also, you and the boss should just date already. The suspense is killing productivity.”  

“Miles.”  

“Fine, fine. But I’m not wrong.”  

Nathan’s door opened just then, as if summoned. He stepped out, sleeves rolled, tie gone. His gaze flicked to her desk, just long enough to make Miles raise both eyebrows.  

“I’ll, uh, check on the interns,” Miles muttered, escaping with his coffee.  

Nathan walked over. “Good job today.”  

“Thanks.”  

“You held the room.”  

“So did you.”  

He smiled faintly. “Comes with the job.”  

“Still,” she said, “it worked because we didn’t over-rehearse. It felt… real.”  

“Because it was.”  

For a moment, neither spoke. The noise of the office filled the gap—the printer, the hum of lights, Miles’ distant laughter. Nathan shifted slightly, his tone lower. “You free later? Thought we could go over the next phase while it’s still fresh.”  

“Tonight?”  

He nodded. “Unless you’d rather call it early.”  

She hesitated, then smiled. “No, tonight’s fine.”  

“Good.”  

They met after everyone had gone. The office was quiet again, the kind of silence that carried its own sound. Samantha spread the new drafts across the conference table while Nathan brought over his notes.  

“Feels weird,” she said. “Being in the same room without half the team.”  

“Peaceful,” he said. “You don’t miss the chaos?”  

“Not even slightly.”  

“Liar.”  

“Only a little.”  

They started reviewing slides, adjusting phrasing, refining tone. Every so often, their hands reached for the same paper, and both would pull back a fraction too late.  

“You do realize we’re rewriting a project that already succeeded,” she said, glancing at him.  

“I like precision.”  

“You like control.”  

He smiled. “You say that like it’s a flaw.”  

“Maybe it is.”  

“Maybe it’s why things work.”  

She looked up from the notes, caught his eyes, and forgot what she was about to say. The air between them wasn’t tense—it was aware.  

The clock hit eight. She gathered her notes, stretching. “We’ve done enough for one night.”  

“Agreed.”  

“See? Progress.”  

He laughed quietly. “Don’t ruin it.”  

They left the conference room together, walking toward the elevators. The building was almost dark, only the emergency lights glowing faintly.  

When the elevator doors opened, Nathan gestured for her to go first.  

“Polite tonight?” she teased.  

“Occasionally.”  

“Dangerous habit.”  

“I’ll risk it.”  

The doors slid shut, enclosing them in a narrow hum of stillness. The faint scent of rain drifted in from somewhere, and Samantha found herself staring at the numbers climbing too slowly.  

He spoke without looking at her. “I was thinking about last year’s blackout.”  

She smiled. “I knew you’d bring that up.”  

“You started it.”  

“I just mentioned the word rain, not trauma.”  

“Same thing.”  

“Wasn’t it you who said you didn’t want to leave back then?”  

He turned his head slightly. “And wasn’t it you who stayed?”  

Her breath caught, the elevator dinged, and the doors opened to the lobby.  

Outside, the air smelled like wet asphalt and faint jasmine from a nearby vendor. They stood under the awning, watching rain blur the street.  

“Should I call you a cab?” he asked.  

“I can walk.”  

“It’s late.”  

“I’ll be fine.”  

He hesitated. “Let me at least walk you to the corner.”  

She sighed, smiling. “You never listen, do you?”  

“Only selectively.”  

They stepped out together, umbrellas low, footsteps syncing without effort. The city glowed in reflection—streetlights caught in puddles, windows streaked with water.  

Samantha spoke first. “Do you ever think about what would’ve happened if we hadn’t met like this?”  

“In an office?”  

“In a city. At this time. This version of us.”  

“I try not to think about hypotheticals.”  

“Why not?”  

“They make me wish for things I can’t change.”  

She nodded, understanding too well. “That’s fair.”  

He looked at her sideways. “You?”  

“I think about it all the time.”  

A car splashed past, scattering rain across their shoes. She laughed, the sound half tired, half alive. “See? The universe agrees—too much sentiment.”  

He smiled. “Maybe it’s agreeing that timing is cruel.”  

They reached the corner where their paths split. The rain had softened, falling more like mist. She turned toward her street. “Guess this is me.”  

He nodded. “Guess so.”  

“Thanks for walking me.”  

“Always.”  

She hesitated, then said quietly, “You know, the distance between two people isn’t always measured in space.”  

“I know.”  

“Sometimes it’s just silence.”  

“And sometimes it’s choice.”  

She looked up at him, searching for something she couldn’t name. “Which is this?”  

He held her gaze. “Still deciding.”  

The streetlight flickered. She smiled faintly. “Goodnight, Nathan.”  

“Goodnight, Sam.”  

She crossed the street, her reflection rippling in the puddles. When she glanced back once, he was still standing there, watching, rain collecting on his shoulders.  

Later, in her apartment, she set her umbrella by the door and leaned against the wall for a long moment. The city hum reached her faintly from below—sirens, laughter, the low rhythm of life that never stopped.  

Her phone buzzed. A message from him.  

*Got home?*  

She typed: *Yes.*  

Paused, then added: *You?*  

A moment later, his reply came. *Still walking. Needed the air.*  

She smiled, typing: *Don’t get sick.*  

*Boss’s orders?* he wrote back.  

*Friend’s suggestion,* she answered.  

Three dots blinked, then disappeared.  

She didn’t mind. The silence between them felt less like absence now, more like something waiting—alive, patient, unfinished.  

Samantha placed her phone face down on the table, turned off the lights, and let the city’s glow fill the room. Somewhere outside, rain started again, soft and certain, like a reminder that some distances weren’t meant to close too fast.