By the time Friday turned to night, the office had emptied, leaving only the hum of machines and the faint glow of the city outside.  

Ava sat at her desk, surrounded by half-finished reports and the ghost of another deadline.

Her phone buzzed once. Evan: *Still alive?*  

She stared at the message, smiled despite herself, then typed back: *Barely. Why are you up?*  

Evan: *Editing. Thought you might need rescue.*  

Ava: *From what?*  

Evan: *Your own perfectionism.*  

Ava: *Harmless habit.*  

Evan: *Fatal flaw.*

She shook her head, half amused, half tired.  

The clock on her screen read 10:42 p.m. Everyone else had gone home hours ago. The cleaning staff had already passed by twice. Still, she couldn’t leave. Not yet. Not until the numbers made sense, until the deck looked perfect, until she felt in control again.

Control was safer than hope.

Another message.  

Evan: *Dinner?*  

Ava: *Too late.*  

Evan: *Then coffee. I’m outside.*  

She froze. *You’re what?*  

*Outside,* he wrote again. *Lobby. Don’t panic.*

Ava pushed back from her chair, crossed the dim floor, and pressed the elevator button with a sigh that sounded suspiciously like surrender.

The lobby was nearly empty, the night guard watching muted TV. Evan stood near the window, rain dampening his jacket, two paper cups in hand.  

"You’re insane," she said.  

"Maybe. But I brought caffeine."  

"You can’t just show up at my office at midnight."  

"Technically it’s ten-fifty-eight."  

She stared at him. "That’s your defense?"  

"Strong one, isn’t it?"

He handed her the cup. She took it, the warmth seeping into her palms before she could refuse.  

"Thanks," she said quietly.  

"Anytime," he replied. Then, softer: "You shouldn’t work this late."

"Someone has to."  

"Not tonight."

The rain outside had turned into mist, the kind that blurred the edges of streetlights. Ava looked at it and suddenly felt the weight of her exhaustion.

"Come on," Evan said. "You need air."  

"I need to finish."  

"You need to breathe."

He waited. She sighed again, but this time she followed him out.

They walked without hurry, the city humming around them. It smelled of wet asphalt and possibility.  

"So," Evan said, "rule number thirteen?"  

She glanced at him. "There isn’t one."  

"Then make it."  

"Fine. Rule #13: No rescuing me from my own choices."  

"Terrible rule."  

"Perfect rule."

He laughed, the sound slipping easily into the rain.  

By the time they reached her apartment building, the drizzle had soaked through her sleeves. She turned to him.  

"Thanks for the coffee. And the unsolicited intervention."  

"My pleasure."  

"You really didn’t have to."  

"I wanted to."

Something in his tone made her chest tighten. She opened her mouth, closed it again, then gestured toward the entrance.  

"Good night, Brooks."  

"Night, Mitchell."

But she hesitated before going in. "You’re getting drenched."  

"I’ve survived worse."  

"That’s not the point."  

"Invite me up, and I’ll dry off."

Her eyebrows lifted. "Nice try."  

"Couldn’t hurt to ask."

She rolled her eyes and stepped inside. He stayed outside, watching the door close between them.

Upstairs, she unlocked her apartment and exhaled. The quiet hit first, then the realization that she was still smiling.

She kicked off her shoes, set the cup on the counter, and sat on the couch, laptop waiting.  

The rain kept falling. So did her guard.

A knock startled her.

She frowned, crossed to the door, and opened it—half expecting the delivery guy, half afraid of exactly who it was.

Evan.

"So," he said, dripping and unapologetic, "technically you didn’t say good-bye."

"You can’t just—"  

"Rule thirteen, remember? Terrible rule."

Before she could respond, thunder cracked somewhere above the city. The lights flickered once, then steadied. He stood there, rain-soaked and ridiculous, holding a takeout bag like a peace offering.

"Let me in before your neighbors report a crime."  

She hesitated, then stepped aside.

He walked in carefully, leaving a trail of rain across her floor.  

"Do you always show up uninvited?" she asked.  

"Only when invited energy is ignored."  

"That’s not how that works."  

"It is tonight."

He set the food on the counter, shrugging off his jacket. "Pad Thai. You didn’t eat, did you?"  

She folded her arms. "You assume a lot."  

"You assume I’m wrong."  

He grinned, victorious when her stomach growled audibly.  

"See?"  

"Coincidence."  

"Sure."

She gave up and opened the container. The scent of spice filled the small apartment. Evan leaned against the counter, watching her with a softness that made her nervous.  

"Stop that," she said.  

"Stop what?"  

"Looking at me like that."  

"Like what?"  

"Like I’m… something you want."  

He smiled faintly. "Maybe you are."

Ava inhaled, steady but shaken. "Don’t start this."  

"Start what?"  

"Whatever this is becoming."  

"I think it already started."

For a long second neither of them moved. The hum of the refrigerator filled the silence, steady and domestic, a sound that didn’t belong to either of them.  

She broke first. "You should dry your hair before you catch a cold."  

"You’re changing the subject."  

"Efficiently."

He found a towel in her kitchen, rubbed his hair dry, and dropped onto the couch.  

"You don’t mind, do you?"  

"I mind everything."  

"That’s not a no."

She sighed, joined him reluctantly, noodles in hand.  

"This is absurd."  

"Agreed. Also delicious."

They ate in uneven silence. The rain outside softened to a steady rhythm, as if keeping time for something unspoken.  

When they finished, Evan leaned back, arms stretched along the couch.  

"You ever notice," he said, "how every plan you make gets ruined by real life?"  

"That’s the nature of plans."  

"Maybe the trick is to stop making them."  

"Chaos isn’t a strategy."  

"It’s worked for me so far."  

"Your bar is low."  

"Still standing, though."

She laughed, caught off guard. "You’re impossible."  

"Persistent."  

"Same thing."

He watched her for a moment. "You look tired."  

"That’s because I am."  

"Then sleep."  

"I can’t. Too much to do."  

He glanced around the apartment, at the stacks of papers, the open laptop. "It’ll wait."  

"Deadlines don’t wait."  

"Neither do people."

Something in the way he said it made her pulse skip. She looked away, but the quiet between them changed—no longer empty, but charged.

"Seriously," he said softly. "Close the computer for one night."

She did. Without thinking, she reached over and shut the lid. The click was louder than it should have been.

"There. Happy?"  

"Getting there."

He smiled, eyes half-lidded, and patted the space beside him.  

"Sit. Breathe. Pretend we’re not adults for five minutes."  

"That’s unrealistic."  

"So is pretending you don’t like me."

Her breath caught again. "You’re overconfident."  

"I’m observant."

She hesitated, then sat beside him. Their shoulders brushed, light but unmistakable. The sound of rain filled the silence again, softer now, almost gentle.

"Better?" he asked.  

"Maybe."

He leaned his head back, eyes closing. "See? Breathing accomplished."

Ava stared at him, at the line of his jaw, the way his hair curled slightly at the ends, still damp from rain.  

"You’re going to fall asleep there," she said.  

"Probably."  

"On my couch."  

"Technically our couch. We’ve bonded through caffeine and deadlines."

She shook her head, smiling. "You’re unbelievable."  

"That’s my charm."

Minutes passed. His breathing slowed, steady and calm. She turned off the lamp, the room dimming into amber shadows.  

When she looked again, he was asleep—head tilted, mouth barely curved, every trace of irony gone.

Ava sat still for a long time, the sound of rain filling the space between heartbeats. She reached for the throw blanket, unfolded it, and draped it over him carefully.

His hand twitched, brushing hers lightly. "You should rest too," he murmured, eyes still closed.  

"Working on it," she whispered back.

She sank into the opposite corner of the couch, legs curled beneath her, laptop forgotten. The glow from the city outside danced across the floor.

At some point, her eyes closed too.