The morning after felt softer than it should have been. Samantha woke with the faint memory of a smile that might have been real. Her phone was already buzzing by the time she found the courage to open her eyes. A message from Nathan.  

*Morning. Hope you slept well. I’ll see you at the office.*  

She stared at it longer than she needed to. No warmth, no weight—just safety. Safe words from a man who was anything but.  

She typed *You too* and sent it before she could stop herself.  

By the time she reached the office, everything had already returned to order. The team was busy, the lights too bright, and the air smelled faintly of coffee and paper. Nathan was already at his desk, sleeves rolled, expression unreadable. When he looked up, his greeting was as measured as ever.  

“Morning.”  

“Morning.”  

That was all.  

She told herself it didn’t matter. That what happened the night before was simply a moment stretched too long by tiredness and rain. But the way his gaze hesitated, even for a second, told her it hadn’t been nothing.  

Miles noticed before anyone else. He always did. He slid into the chair across from her, coffee in hand, smirk already ready. “So, which one of you blinked first?”  

“Excuse me?”  

“You and the boss. There’s this thing in the air. It’s like static before a storm.”  

“Maybe it’s just humidity.”  

“Yeah, sure. Emotional humidity.”  

“Miles.”  

“Fine. I’ll stop. But for the record—people who pretend they don’t care usually already do.”  

She looked at him, trying not to laugh. “Do you ever stop diagnosing people?”  

“Only when I run out of caffeine.”  

She shook her head, but his words stayed with her longer than she wanted them to.  

The day passed without event, the kind of monotony that felt like a cover for something else. Nathan kept his distance, buried in calls and reports. When he did speak to her, it was about work—clean, precise, nothing more.  

By midafternoon, she found herself missing the silence between their words, the kind that used to mean something.  

At five, Nathan appeared beside her desk.  

“There’s a dinner tonight,” he said.  

She looked up. “Dinner?”  

“Client meeting. They confirmed last minute.”  

“Do you need me there?”  

“Yes.”  

His tone was casual, but his eyes lingered for a second too long.  

“Alright,” she said. “What time?”  

“Seven. I’ll send the details.”  

“Got it.”  

He nodded once, then walked away, already back in his head.  

The restaurant was one of those polished places that pretended not to care about being expensive. Glass walls, low lighting, a view of the city that made conversation feel smaller. Samantha arrived a few minutes early, only to find Nathan already there, speaking with the client near the window.  

He turned when he saw her. “You made it.”  

“Traffic wasn’t bad.”  

“Good.”  

He looked like he hadn’t slept, yet somehow more composed than ever.  

The dinner started easily enough—small talk, wine, the practiced rhythm of business disguised as conversation. She handled her part well, smiling when required, contributing when needed.  

Then, halfway through, the client’s attention shifted.  

“Nathan, you remember Isabelle?”  

Samantha turned just as a woman approached the table.  

Tall, elegant, the kind of effortless grace that made the room seem quieter. Her hair was perfectly styled, her voice calm but familiar.  

“Nathan,” the woman said, smiling. “It’s been a long time.”  

He stood immediately. “Isabelle. It has.”  

The handshake lingered.  

Samantha’s pulse skipped.  

They exchanged a few sentences—about mutual acquaintances, old projects, cities that weren’t this one.  

To anyone else, it was polite nostalgia.  

To her, it was history she hadn’t known existed.  

When the conversation returned to work, Nathan was composed again, but something about his tone had shifted. Politeness had turned into distance, and every word felt measured.  

Samantha sat quietly, smiling when needed, her hands folded neatly on the table. Every now and then, Isabelle’s laugh would fill the air, smooth and soft, and Nathan would respond with the kind of half-smile that didn’t belong to the office version of him.  

By the time dessert came, Samantha’s voice felt foreign to her own ears.  

When Isabelle placed a hand lightly on Nathan’s sleeve as she stood to leave, Samantha’s stomach tightened before she could stop it.  

“Lovely to meet you,” Isabelle said to her, genuinely kind.  

“You too,” Samantha replied, and she meant it. Or tried to.  

The car ride back was quiet. Nathan offered her a ride, and she didn’t refuse. The city outside blurred past in streaks of color and glass.  

“Good dinner,” he said finally.  

“Mm.”  

“You handled it well.”  

“Thanks.”  

“Something wrong?”  

“No.”  

He nodded, but his jaw tightened.  

At a red light, she looked out the window.  

“Isabelle seems... nice.”  

“She is.”  

“How long have you known her?”  

“A few years.”  

“She seemed close.”  

“We used to work together.”  

“I see.”  

He glanced at her, but she kept her eyes on the window.  

“Samantha—”  

“It’s fine.”  

“It doesn’t sound fine.”  

“It’s just dinner.”  

“Right.”  

The light turned green. Neither spoke again.  

When he dropped her off, she said, “Thanks for the ride,” without looking at him.  

“Anytime.”  

“Goodnight.”  

“Goodnight.”  

He waited until she was inside before driving off.  

In her apartment, Samantha leaned against the door, still holding her bag. The city lights below blinked like they were keeping secrets. She walked to the window, the one that faced the skyline, and pressed her palm against the glass.  

She replayed the evening in fragments. Isabelle’s smile. The way Nathan had leaned in slightly to listen. The tone in his voice when he said her name. The absence of that tone when he said hers.  

Her reflection stared back at her, faint in the window.  

She whispered, “Maybe I was wrong about mornings.”  

The city didn’t answer.  

It just kept shining, relentless and indifferent,  

as if to remind her that light could be both beautiful and cruel.