Morning arrived soft and undecided, the sky a pale gray that couldn’t tell if it wanted to brighten. Samantha woke to the faint buzz of her phone on the nightstand. A message from Nathan.  

*Good morning. Hope you got some rest.*  

Simple. Polite. Professional. The kind of message that didn’t hurt, but didn’t warm either. She stared at it longer than she should have, waiting for something more—a trace of last night, maybe—but it never came.  

She typed *You too*, deleted it, then sent *Thank you.* It looked worse in text than it had in her head.  

By the time she reached the office, the world had already slipped back into its rhythm. Meetings. Emails. The mechanical comfort of routine. Nathan was already there, talking to Claire near the glass wall. His tone was calm, composed, almost distant. She told herself not to read into it. He was like this with everyone. Still, it stung.  

“Morning,” she said when he passed her desk.  

“Morning,” he answered.  

That was it. Two syllables, perfectly neutral, wrapped in professionalism.  

Miles appeared beside her a minute later, coffee in hand, grin too knowing. “Well, someone looks like they texted their crush and got a polite emoji back.”  

She shot him a look. “Not funny.”  

“Oh, it’s hilarious. Painful, but hilarious.”  

“Please stop.”  

He tilted his head. “You know he’s just terrified, right?”  

“Of what?”  

“Of himself. You think a man that controlled doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing when he keeps his distance? He’s protecting his balance.”  

“Maybe he’s protecting me.”  

Miles blinked. “You say that like it’s noble.”  

She sighed, turning back to her screen. “Maybe it is.”  

“Or maybe it’s just cowardice with a tie on.”  

She didn’t answer. But his words followed her the rest of the morning.  

The day stretched long, endless meetings blurring together. Nathan was steady, efficient, but colder than usual. At one point, during a team review, he cut her off mid-sentence.  

“That section’s unnecessary,” he said.  

She froze, surprised. “I was just clarifying the—”  

“I’ve already clarified it.” His tone wasn’t sharp, just final.  

A flicker of heat rose in her chest, equal parts hurt and pride. She bit her tongue, nodded, and kept typing.  

After the meeting, Miles slid into the chair beside her. “You’re taking that too well.”  

“I’m fine.”  

“You’re lying.”  

“I’m working.”  

He leaned closer. “He’s deflecting. You’re pretending. It’s exhausting just to watch.”  

“Then stop watching.”  

“Can’t. It’s like live theater, but sadder.”  

She laughed despite herself. “You’re terrible.”  

“Correct. But at least I’m right.”  

Evening arrived without warning. Most of the team had gone home. Samantha stayed, telling herself she needed to finish the report, but really, she needed the quiet. The kind that didn’t ask questions.  

She was halfway through editing when she heard the elevator doors open. Footsteps. Then his voice.  

“You’re still here.”  

She didn’t turn around. “So are you.”  

“Old habit.”  

She kept typing. “Micromanaging?”  

“Overworking.”  

“Same thing.”  

He walked closer. “About earlier—I shouldn’t have interrupted you.”  

“It’s fine.”  

“It wasn’t.”  

She stopped typing. “Then why did you?”  

He hesitated. “Because I didn’t want to argue in front of everyone.”  

“Who said we were arguing?”  

He met her eyes. “We always are, in some way.”  

Something in her tightened. “You think this is fighting?”  

“I think it’s... everything we don’t say.”  

Her voice dropped. “Then maybe say it.”  

Silence. Just the hum of the city outside.  

He exhaled. “I don’t know how to be around you without overthinking every word.”  

“Then don’t.”  

“It’s not that simple.”  

“It is, actually. You make it complicated.”  

He smiled faintly. “You make it matter.”  

That undid her more than anything else could have. She looked away first.  

“You’re impossible,” she whispered.  

“So are you.”  

“Then what are we doing?”  

“Trying not to ruin something we don’t even understand yet.”  

They both fell quiet again. Rain began tapping against the windows, as if the weather had been listening all along.  

Later, they stood by the window, both too tired to pretend anymore. The rain blurred the city into movement and color. Nathan’s reflection hovered beside hers in the glass, close but not touching.  

“I used to like mornings,” she said softly. “They used to mean starting over.”  

“And now?”  

“Now they feel like pretending I did.”  

He glanced at her. “Maybe you just need a new reason.”  

She smiled faintly. “Maybe.”  

For a while, they just stood there, the silence no longer sharp. Then, slowly, the horizon began to shift. The storm was ending. The sky brightened in quiet streaks of gold, the kind of light that didn’t demand attention but still changed everything it touched.  

Nathan spoke first, voice barely above a whisper. “Do you ever think mornings can start over?”  

Samantha turned to him, light catching her face, her expression caught somewhere between exhaustion and hope.  

“Maybe this one already did,” she said.  

He looked at her for a long moment, as if trying to memorize the way she said it. And for the first time in days, he smiled—not polite, not restrained, but real.  

Outside, the city kept waking. Inside, something else did too.