He had spent the past week convincing himself it was nothing.
Elias sat in his office, the skyline of Evermere stretched endlessly beyond the glass wall. The city glimmered, distant and unreachable, the light bouncing off every surface like it was meant to blind. He preferred it that way—clarity through distance, order through control. The hum of the air conditioner filled the silence that he hadn’t yet learned to live with.
There were papers spread across his desk, a report open on the screen, but his eyes weren’t reading. His mind had already wandered—back to that night, to the sound of glass breaking and a woman’s voice calling out through the chaos.
He shouldn’t have gone back to see her. That thought had played on repeat, a quiet reprimand tucked behind his calm expression. He didn’t know why he had done it, why *she* of all people had stayed in his mind. She wasn’t supposed to. People didn’t stay.
“Mr. Vance?”
His assistant’s voice broke through the static of his thoughts. Elias blinked once before looking up.
“Meeting in fifteen minutes,” she said.
“Right.”
She hesitated, her tone uncertain. “There’s also someone waiting in the lobby. Said she’s from Wren & Bloom.”
Elias’s fingers paused against the keyboard. The air in the room shifted, or maybe it was just the blood rushing through his ears.
“Did she leave a name?”
“Clara Wren.”
The name landed like a pulse beneath his ribs. For a moment, Elias didn’t move. Then, almost as if forcing himself, he nodded. “Send her up.”
He stood as the door closed behind his assistant, adjusting his cuffs, trying to ignore the sudden tightness in his chest. It wasn’t nerves—he didn’t believe in nerves. It was something else. Something he didn’t have a word for.
When the elevator doors opened, Clara stepped out, sunlight tracing her silhouette before she entered the shadow of the office. She looked out of place amid the sharp lines and glass surfaces—soft edges in a room built from control. She held a small bouquet wrapped in brown paper, like it didn’t quite belong here either.
“Hi,” she said, her voice low, polite. “Sorry to come without notice.”
He didn’t answer right away. His gaze flicked to the flowers, then to her.
“You didn’t have to come,” he said.
“I know,” she replied. “But I wanted to.”
The words lingered between them, quiet and disarming. Elias had always been good at silence, but this one felt different—less like armor, more like exposure.
“I wanted to make sure you were alright,” she added, glancing toward the faint scar still visible near his temple.
“I’m fine.” His voice came out too quickly.
Clara smiled faintly, the kind of smile that didn’t demand a response. “Good.”
She placed the bouquet on his desk. The flowers were simple—white tulips, clean, understated. They didn’t ask to be noticed, but he noticed them anyway.
“You didn’t have to bring—”
“I know,” she said again, softer this time. “But I wanted to.”
He looked at her then, really looked, and for a moment the world outside the glass walls stopped shimmering.
“You shouldn’t walk alone in this part of town,” he said, his tone steady but quieter.
“I wasn’t planning to,” she replied, amusement flickering briefly in her eyes. “There’s a café downstairs. I thought maybe you’d… join me for coffee.”
Elias’s expression didn’t change, but something in his chest shifted—an unfamiliar pull that made refusal impossible.
He exhaled slowly. “Five minutes.”
“Five minutes,” she echoed, smiling now, and turned toward the elevator.
As the doors closed behind her, Elias looked at the bouquet again. The tulips stood perfectly still in the glass light, white against the polished wood.
And for the first time in years, he wondered what it would feel like to stop pretending he didn’t care.
The café was quieter than he expected.
Elias followed Clara through the narrow street, the sound of the city dimming behind them until all that remained was the clinking of cups and the low hum of conversation. The place was small, tucked between two brick buildings with windows fogged from the warmth inside. It smelled of roasted beans and something faintly sweet—like cinnamon and comfort.
Clara chose a corner table, away from the light, where the world seemed softer. Elias sat across from her, his posture straight, hands clasped loosely in front of him. The space between them was neither awkward nor easy—it simply existed, like a pause that neither wanted to break first.
“You don’t come to places like this often, do you?” she asked, watching him with a hint of amusement.
He shook his head. “Not really.”
“Let me guess—coffee from the office machine?”
He looked up, almost smiling. “You make it sound like a crime.”
“Depends on who’s drinking it.” Clara’s tone was teasing, but her eyes were gentle. “You seem like the kind of person who forgets to eat when you’re busy.”
“I don’t forget,” he said, his gaze steady. “I just don’t stop.”
“That sounds worse.”
Elias glanced down at his untouched cup. “Maybe.”
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind that carried meaning, layered and quiet. Clara watched the way he tapped the edge of his cup once before speaking again.
“I wanted to thank you,” he said suddenly.
Clara blinked. “For what?”
“For being there that night.”
Her fingers brushed the handle of her cup. “Anyone would’ve done the same.”
“Not anyone,” he replied. His voice wasn’t loud, but it had a weight to it. “You stayed.”
Clara smiled faintly, lowering her gaze. “I guess I didn’t want to leave someone alone.”
He studied her for a long moment, and she could feel it—not invasive, just careful, as though he was trying to understand her without asking too much. “You do that often?” he asked quietly. “Take care of people who don’t ask for it?”
She laughed softly. “Maybe. But you’re not exactly the type who makes it easy.”
Elias looked down, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “Probably not.”
There was something almost human in that admission—something unguarded. Clara leaned back in her chair, the faintest warmth curling in her chest.
They didn’t speak for a while. The world outside moved on—people walking, cars passing, time slipping by—but inside, the quiet between them took its own shape, like a small, fragile peace neither of them had expected.
When she finally stood, Elias followed, his movement instinctive.
“I should get back,” she said. “Marla’s probably wondering where I’ve disappeared to.”
He nodded. “Thank you for the coffee.”
“You didn’t even drink it.”
“Still,” he said, meeting her eyes, “thank you.”
She hesitated, then smiled again, softer this time. “You’re welcome.”
As she turned toward the door, Elias found himself saying her name—“Clara”—before he could stop it. She looked back, waiting.
He didn’t know what he meant to say. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.
Instead, he just said, “Drive safe.”
Her smile widened, understanding more than he’d said. “You too, Elias.”
Then she was gone, the bell above the door chiming softly behind her.
Elias stood there for a moment longer, his hands in his pockets, watching the empty space she’d left behind. The air still held her warmth, faint and almost imaginary.
And for the first time in a long time, the silence didn’t feel heavy.
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