Elyndra in spring was strange—half hope, half hangover.
The city smelled of wet concrete and new leaves, and people pretended to believe in beginnings again.
Clara didn’t mind pretending.
Pretending was easy; it was believing that still felt risky.
Work picked up fast after the partnership launch.
She and Adrian spent most days buried in revisions, deadlines, and client calls that lasted longer than lunch breaks.
It wasn’t glamorous, but it was steady.
Sometimes, steadiness was enough.
That morning, she arrived to find a note on her desk.
It was written in neat handwriting: *Left you a draft to review—A.*
She smiled without meaning to.
It wasn’t much, but the gesture had a warmth numbers couldn’t measure.
She found the file attached to his email: *Chapter 3 revisions.*
He’d added comments—practical, clear, a little ruthless—but there was something new at the end.
> *This version feels more alive. Don’t smooth it too much. Rough edges make it real.*
She read it twice.
Adrian never said things like that.
He spoke in efficiency, not empathy.
And yet—here it was.
When she looked up, he was standing by the printer, sleeves rolled up, focus sharp as ever.
She wanted to say something, but didn’t know what.
Instead, she just said, “Got your note.”
He nodded. “Too much feedback?”
“No. Just enough.”
Their eyes met for a second longer than necessary.
Mae walked in, breaking the silence.
“Team dinner Friday,” she said. “Everyone’s coming. That includes you, antisocial people.”
“Define antisocial,” Adrian said.
“People who look allergic to fun.”
He sighed. “Then yes, that includes me.”
Clara grinned. “I’ll drag him if I have to.”
“Please do,” Mae said. “He scares the interns.”
“I don’t *scare* them,” Adrian said.
“They flinch when you breathe,” Mae replied.
When Mae left, Clara turned to him.
“You know, she’s not wrong.”
“I’m efficient, not intimidating.”
“Those overlap.”
He looked like he wanted to argue, but then just smiled and went back to his laptop.
Friday came faster than expected.
The dinner was at a small restaurant by the water—dim lights, cheap wine, and a view that made everything look more romantic than it really was.
Clara sat across from Adrian, who seemed deeply confused by the concept of relaxation.
Theo was already half drunk, telling a story about a disastrous blind date.
“Guy shows up wearing a vest *and* a fedora,” he said. “I left before dessert.”
Mae laughed. “That’s self-care.”
Clara caught Adrian watching the group, quiet but attentive.
“You look like you’re collecting data again,” she said.
“Just observing,” he said.
“From a distance?”
“It’s safer that way.”
She smiled. “You really should try being in the experiment for once.”
He glanced at her. “Maybe I already am.”
Something about the way he said it made her forget how to breathe.
The table around them was loud, full of laughter and clinking glasses, but for a moment, all she could hear was the sound of his voice.
It wasn’t flirting.
It was recognition.
The kind that happens when two people finally see the same wreckage—and stop pretending it’s gone.
After dinner, most of the team decided to stay for another round.
Clara didn’t. She needed air, space, quiet—the things that came after too much laughter.
Outside, the night was cool and clear. The smell of the sea rolled through the street, mixed with the faint sweetness of spilled wine.
She leaned on the railing by the pier and looked out at the water, black and restless under the streetlights.
“Leaving early?”
She turned. Adrian stood a few steps away, jacket over his arm, expression unreadable but softer than usual.
“Didn’t think this was your kind of party,” she said.
“It’s not. But Mae said I needed ‘social exposure.’”
She smiled. “How’s that working out?”
“I’d rather be here.”
They stood in silence for a while.
The restaurant music drifted faintly through the open door, muffled by distance.
“You know,” she said, “you’re not as unreadable as you think.”
“Really?”
“You pretend to be detached, but you care. It’s just… hidden in weird places. Like feedback notes.”
He gave a small laugh. “That’s not very strategic of me.”
“Emotions rarely are.”
He looked at her for a moment, something unspoken flickering between them.
“Do you ever regret it?” he asked.
“What?”
“Letting people in.”
She thought about Julian, about the pieces of herself she’d left scattered along the way.
“Sometimes,” she said. “But not as much as I regret shutting them out.”
The wind picked up, blowing her hair across her face.
Without thinking, Adrian reached out and brushed it aside.
Then he froze, realizing what he’d done.
“Sorry,” he said quickly.
“It’s fine,” she said, voice steady but low.
The moment stretched, quiet and fragile.
She stepped back slightly, needing distance, but not too much.
“You’re still figuring it out,” she said.
“What?”
“How to be around people without fixing them.”
He smiled faintly. “You noticed.”
“I notice everything.”
“I know.”
A gull cried somewhere overhead.
The water hit the pier in a steady rhythm, like breathing.
He spoke again, softer now. “You make it look easy.”
“Make what look easy?”
“Being human.”
She laughed quietly. “That’s the biggest illusion of all.”
They stood there until the lights from the restaurant dimmed and the laughter faded.
Eventually, he said, “Walk you home?”
She nodded. “Sure.”
The streets were empty, the city settling into its midnight heartbeat.
They didn’t talk much. They didn’t need to.
When they reached her building, she turned to him.
“Thanks,” she said.
“For what?”
“For not asking what I’m thinking.”
He smiled. “You’d just lie anyway.”
“Probably.”
She hesitated, then added, “Goodnight, Adrian.”
“Goodnight, Clara.”
He walked away, his footsteps fading into the quiet.
She watched until he disappeared, then unlocked her door and stepped inside.
The apartment was still, the kind of still that felt earned.
She dropped her keys on the counter, toed off her shoes, and sat by the window.
From here, she could see the reflection of the harbor lights, a thin shimmer breaking on the water’s surface.
Somewhere inside her, she felt something shift—not an explosion, not even clarity.
Just a small ruin giving way to something new.
She opened her notebook and wrote:
*Healing doesn’t look like light. Sometimes it looks like staying—long enough to see the cracks stop spreading.*
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