The week began as if nothing had changed. Emails still filled the inbox, the coffee still tasted slightly burnt, and the office lights hummed with their usual indifference. But something invisible had shifted—small, quiet, steady.  

Samantha felt it first in the way her mornings moved differently. She no longer hesitated at the door to Nathan’s office, no longer rehearsed her tone before speaking. When she passed him a report, her fingers brushed the edge of his hand for a second too long. He didn’t pull away. Neither did she.  

Nathan noticed it in the silence. It wasn’t the kind that used to press against him, the heavy, wordless restraint. This was something else—something that hummed beneath the surface, like an unspoken rhythm that only the two of them could hear.  

On Tuesday, he placed a coffee on her desk without a word.  

She looked up, surprised. “What’s this?”  

“Coffee.”  

“I can see that.”  

He shrugged. “Consider it damage control.”  

“For what?”  

“For everything.”  

She smiled. “You’re late on that.”  

“I know.”  

She sipped it, pretending not to like that it was exactly how she took it.  

Later that afternoon, she left a folder on his desk with a sticky note attached:  

*Try not to overthink this one.*  

He saw it when he returned from a call and laughed quietly to himself.  

Miles, of course, noticed the change first. He always did.  

He appeared beside her during lunch, tray in hand, grin uninvited.  

“So,” he said. “We’re doing the thing again.”  

“What thing?”  

“The emotionally repressed dance of mutual awareness.”  

She rolled her eyes. “I’m eating.”  

“I can multitask judgment.”  

“Miles.”  

“Fine, fine. Just saying—the office Wi-Fi isn’t the only thing connecting lately.”  

She nearly choked on her sandwich. “You’re insufferable.”  

“True, but observant.”  

He left before she could find a comeback, leaving her half laughing, half uneasy.  

By midweek, the air grew heavier. The forecast had warned of storms, but no one took it seriously until the sky turned a solid gray by late afternoon.  

Rain hammered against the windows. The wind howled between buildings, carrying a sound that felt like memory.  

Samantha stood by the glass, watching droplets race down the pane. “Déjà vu,” she murmured.  

Nathan joined her, hands in pockets. “You mean the blackout?”  

“Among other things.”  

“Let’s hope this one doesn’t cut the power.”  

She glanced at him. “Would that be so bad?”  

He smiled. “Depends on who you’re stuck with.”  

She raised an eyebrow. “Anyone else in mind?”  

“Not particularly.”  

Lightning flickered, followed by a low rumble.  

At seven, the lights flickered once—then again—and went out.  

The office fell into that same half-darkness they remembered, bathed in soft emergency light. For a moment, neither moved. Then Samantha laughed under her breath. “Of course.”  

Nathan’s voice was quiet. “Seems like we have a pattern.”  

“Maybe the city’s trying to tell us something.”  

“Maybe it’s telling us to stop working past seven.”  

“Now you’re just being optimistic.”  

They stayed near the window, the storm painting the glass in silver streaks.  

“You ever notice,” she said softly, “how it’s never really silent here? Even when everything stops?”  

He nodded. “The city hums. Always has.”  

“It’s like it refuses to let us forget we’re part of it.”  

“Maybe it’s reminding us we’re small.”  

“Or alive.”  

He looked at her. “You always choose the softer option.”  

“Someone has to.”  

“I’m not sure it’s softer.”  

“Then what is it?”  

He hesitated. “Braver.”  

Her pulse caught. She turned back to the window. “You say that like you mean it.”  

“I wouldn’t say it otherwise.”  

The thunder rolled again, closer this time.  

Somewhere behind them, a printer restarted and died again.  

Samantha laughed quietly. “You’d think we’d be used to this.”  

“Used to what?”  

“Getting caught between light and dark.”  

“Maybe that’s the only place we ever actually meet.”  

She looked at him. “That’s… unusually poetic for you.”  

“I’ll deny it later.”  

They talked about things that didn’t matter—movies neither had finished, places they wanted to see, music that reminded them of years before either of them had met.  

Then the conversation softened, tilting toward the edges of what mattered.  

He told her about the years before the company, the risks he’d taken, the nights he almost gave up.  

She told him about her mother—how recovery wasn’t just medical, but emotional. How sometimes hope felt heavier than fear.  

For once, Nathan didn’t try to fix the silence that followed. He just stayed in it with her.  

When the lights finally blinked back to life, the hum of machines returned, filling the space with the sound of normalcy. Samantha blinked against the brightness.  

Nathan was watching her.  

She smiled faintly. “Guess we survived another one.”  

“Barely.”  

“Don’t start.”  

He tilted his head. “You’re the one smiling.”  

“Only because the power came back.”  

“Liar.”  

She shook her head, still smiling. Then, before she could think better of it, she asked, “Do you ever wish you’d said something sooner?”  

He looked at her, surprised—not by the question, but by the courage it took to ask.  

“About what?”  

“Anything.”  

He was quiet for a long time, the hum of lights filling the pause.  

Then, softly, almost lost beneath it—  

“Every day.”  

Her breath caught.  

They didn’t move. Didn’t speak.  

The lights hummed above them, steady now. The rain outside had softened to a whisper.  

For a moment, the office felt like the center of the city, the only place still awake.  

Samantha turned back to the window, and he followed her gaze.  

The reflections stared back—two figures side by side, framed in gold and glass.  

Neither smiled. Neither needed to.  

Because in that quiet glow, they both knew something had finally begun to change.