The next morning, Clara woke up before her alarm.
It was still dark outside, that gray-blue hour where the city felt half asleep.
She stayed in bed a few minutes, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember if she’d dreamed of anything worth keeping.
Nothing came.
When she finally sat up, her body felt stiff, like it hadn’t quite caught up with her mind.
She made coffee, fed the neighbor’s cat that liked to sneak in through her window, and watched the sunrise turn the buildings gold.
It was a small, quiet victory—being awake without the weight.
By the time she got to the office, the air smelled like rain again.
Theo was waiting by her desk, leaning against it like he owned the place.
“You’re early,” she said.
“I know. Terrifying, right?”
“Should I call someone?”
He grinned. “You mean a doctor? Probably.”
He handed her a folder.
“Design mockups. Be gentle.”
She flipped through them. “These are actually good.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear the surprise in your voice.”
“Sorry, habit.”
“You should get that checked.”
Before she could answer, Mae appeared with her laptop in hand.
“Emergency meeting in ten. Adrian wants everyone in conference room B.”
Theo groaned. “Our favorite robot calls.”
Clara smirked. “Try not to self-destruct.”
In the conference room, Adrian stood by the projector, scrolling through slides.
He didn’t look up when they came in.
“Morning,” he said, tone neutral as ever.
Mae nodded politely. Theo whispered, “Charming as always.”
Clara elbowed him.
Adrian started talking about engagement metrics and projected targets.
Half the room tuned out after the first chart.
Clara tried to focus, taking notes, but her mind kept drifting—to the conversation by the harbor, to his voice saying *You don’t have to pretend.*
When he asked for feedback, no one spoke.
Finally, Clara raised her hand.
“Maybe,” she said, “we could stop treating readers like algorithms.”
Adrian paused. “They are users. We track their behavior.”
“They’re people,” she said. “And maybe they’re tired of being measured.”
He folded his arms. “Data helps us understand them.”
“Maybe try listening instead.”
The room went quiet. Mae stared at her like she’d just thrown a grenade.
Adrian didn’t flinch. “Listening doesn’t scale.”
“Neither does empathy,” she said. “That’s why it matters.”
A few people shifted uncomfortably.
Adrian closed his laptop.
“Meeting adjourned,” he said simply, and walked out.
Theo exhaled. “Well. That was spicy.”
Mae muttered, “Remind me to hide next time you open your mouth.”
Clara shrugged. “Someone had to say it.”
Back at her desk, she tried to work but couldn’t shake the echo of his expression—calm, unreadable, maybe a little hurt.
She didn’t know why that last part bothered her.
At noon, she went to the break room for coffee.
Adrian was there. Alone.
He turned when she walked in.
For a second, neither of them spoke.
Then he said, “You think I don’t care about people.”
“I think you hide behind numbers,” she said.
“Maybe I do. But they’re the only thing that stay still long enough to study.”
“That’s not living.”
“No,” he said quietly, “but it’s safer.”
She leaned against the counter. “You know what else is safe? Not showing up. Not feeling. Not trying.”
He looked down, then back at her.
“I didn’t mean to make you angry.”
“You didn’t,” she said. “You just made me want to prove you wrong.”
He nodded slowly, like he respected that.
Then, almost smiling, he said, “Then prove it.”
The coffee machine beeped behind them.
Neither moved.
It was one of those moments that didn’t look like much but felt like a shift—small, quiet, permanent.
Clara didn’t say anything for a while.
The smell of burnt coffee filled the room, sharp and bitter.
Adrian poured himself a cup and leaned against the counter beside her, a few feet away but close enough that she could feel the quiet between them.
“Do you ever stop working?” she asked.
He took a sip. “This is me on break.”
She laughed. “That’s depressing.”
“Productive,” he corrected.
She rolled her eyes. “You know, you can admit when something’s miserable.”
He looked at her. “And what would that change?”
“Nothing,” she said, “but it’d make you more human.”
He didn’t answer, but his mouth twitched like he almost smiled.
The door opened; Mae peeked in.
“Oh good, you two aren’t killing each other.”
“Yet,” Clara said.
Mae smirked. “Save it for after hours.”
When Mae left, Clara grabbed her mug and started to walk out, but Adrian said, “Clara.”
She turned.
“About what you said in the meeting,” he began, “you were right.”
She blinked. “Wow. That sounded painful.”
“It was.”
She smiled, and he did too—barely, but it was there.
Back at her desk, she couldn’t stop thinking about it.
A simple *you were right* shouldn’t mean much, but from him, it felt like an earthquake.
That afternoon, she worked late. The office emptied out, lights clicking off one by one.
Outside, thunder rolled in the distance.
When she finally looked up from her screen, Adrian was still there, typing something.
“You live here?” she asked.
“Almost,” he said without looking up.
“You should go home.”
“So should you.”
She packed her things. “Fine. Walk me out.”
He hesitated, then stood.
The rain started as soon as they stepped outside, soft at first, then heavier.
They ran for cover under the awning, both laughing as water hit their shoulders.
“Of course,” Clara said, “it rains the second I try to be productive.”
“It’s Elyndra,” he said. “Rain’s part of the job description.”
For a few seconds, they just stood there, catching their breath.
The streetlights reflected on the wet pavement, turning everything silver.
“You ever think,” she said, “we work too much just to avoid everything else?”
He looked at her. “All the time.”
“Does it work?”
“Sometimes.”
She smiled. “Honest answer.”
He nodded, raindrops sliding from his hair onto his collar.
Something in his face softened—just enough for her to notice.
“You look different when you stop calculating,” she said.
He raised an eyebrow. “Different how?”
“Like you’re here.”
They both went quiet.
The rain fell harder, blurring the world around them.
For a moment, it felt like they were the only two people left in the city.
Adrian’s phone buzzed. He looked at it, frowned, then slipped it back into his pocket without saying anything.
“Work?” she asked.
“Always.”
“Then let it wait.”
He glanced at her, and for the first time, he actually did.
The silence between them wasn’t awkward—it was alive, like static before lightning.
And even though nothing happened, something did.
When they finally said goodnight, it didn’t sound like routine.
It sounded like a beginning neither of them wanted to name.
Clara walked home through the rain, soaked but strangely light.
Her clothes stuck to her skin, her heart beat too fast, and she couldn’t stop smiling.
Back in her apartment, she peeled off her wet jacket, made tea, and opened her notebook.
Her hand hovered over the page before she wrote:
*Sometimes connection doesn’t look like fireworks. Sometimes it’s just two people standing in the rain, not running away.*
She put down the pen, leaned back, and listened to the storm outside.
The thunder rolled again, low and steady, like a promise.
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