Avery woke earlier than usual on the sixth morning, the kind of early that came from thinking too much rather than sleeping well. The apartment was still dim, the sky outside a muted blue that hadn’t decided if it wanted to brighten. She moved through her routine quietly, almost cautiously, as if making too much noise would disturb whatever fragile balance the last few days had formed.

By the time she reached the office, the floor was humming with its usual low energy—the tapping keyboards, the printers warming up, the soft chatter in the distance. Her desk looked exactly the same as always. Except it wasn’t. The meal bag sat there again, neat, clean, precisely placed. Like someone had measured the distance from the keyboard.

She stopped in front of it. This should not feel intimate, she told herself. It was food. It was a company program. It had been five days.

Still, her chest felt too warm.

“Morning,” Jenna said as she walked by. “Early again?”

“Trying,” Avery replied, forcing a small smile.

Jenna glanced at the meal bag, paused for a breath longer than usual, then kept walking. Avery felt the pause like a spotlight.

She sat down, carefully moved the lunch aside, and opened her laptop. She tried not to notice the feeling that someone had intended for her to see it first thing.

But she did notice. She noticed everything now, in spite of herself.

Around ten, a message popped up:  

**Conference Room 39-B. Ten minutes. Bring yesterday’s notes. —J**

Jenna rarely added the dash. And Avery hadn’t expected another high-level meeting today.

Her heartbeat stumbled.  

Was he going to be there?  

Of course he would be there—it was on the 39th floor.

She packed her notes, smoothed her blouse, and forced her legs to carry her to the elevator. The ride up felt longer than usual, a slow ascent into a floor that always smelled faintly of cold air and quiet authority.

The doors opened. The silence of the CEO level hit her instantly—thick, intentional, expensive. She walked toward the conference room, and just before she pushed the door, she caught a glimpse through the glass.

Alexander was already inside.

He stood near the far end of the table, speaking with two directors. Even from behind the door, she could see the familiar posture—straight shoulders, controlled movements, that impossible calm he seemed to carry like a second skin. Someone handed him a file, and he scanned it with quick, efficient eyes. No hesitation, no wasted motion.

And then, as if pulled by something instinctive, he looked toward the door.

The moment his gaze found her, it softened. Just a fraction. A shift no one else in the room seemed to catch, but she did.

She pushed the door open before she could read into it.

“Collins,” he said in greeting, voice low. Professional. Neutral. But the way it landed in her chest was anything but.

“Good morning, sir.”

Their eyes met for a breath. Too long. Too steady.

She took her seat, leaving a respectful distance between herself and the rest of the table. She wasn’t important enough to sit closer. She reminded herself of this every meeting.

The discussion started immediately—market projections, internal reviews, timelines that made her head spin more than once. Avery focused on her notes, writing quickly, trying to keep up. She didn’t expect him to look her way again.

But he did. Not obviously. Never long. Just enough for her to feel it, like warmth brushing the edge of her shoulder.

When a director questioned a detail from yesterday’s summary, Alexander cut him off with a concise, “Collins has it. She documented the sequence.”

Every head turned toward her. Her pulse jumped.

Avery flipped her pages. “Yes, here—” She pointed to the note, offered it across the table, and the director nodded.

Alexander didn’t look at the note. He looked at her. And something unreadable flickered across his expression. Approval, maybe. Relief. Something careful.

The meeting wrapped faster than usual. Chairs scraped, conversations spilled into the hallway, and she was gathering her papers when his voice stopped her again.

“Collins.”

She froze, then turned.

He stood at the opposite side of the table, hands resting lightly on a folder, posture composed. But his eyes—those were not composed. They were searching. Intent.

“You adjusted the sequence from last quarter’s report,” he said. “It made the projections clearer.”

“Oh,” Avery said, blinking. Compliments always landed on her like surprises. “I—I hoped it was useful.”

“It was.” A beat. “Continue.”

The same word again. The same quiet weight. As if “continue” meant more than just work.

She nodded, throat tight. “Yes, sir.”

He looked like he wanted to say something else. Something he held back. His jaw eased; his gaze dipped to her notes; then he stepped away first, giving her space to leave without an audience.

She took the elevator down alone. Her heartbeat didn’t settle until she reached the 14th floor.

By noon, she forced herself to eat the lunch—because it was food, because she needed energy, because it was ridiculous to leave it untouched out of nerves. But every bite felt like answering something she didn’t dare acknowledge.

In the afternoon, while she reviewed spreadsheets, her phone vibrated. A message from Riley:

**So. Did the Lunch King deliver again?**

Avery’s fingers hovered over the keyboard.

*Yes,* she typed.

*And?*

She hesitated.

How did she explain that nothing happened, yet something felt different?  

How did she say a man who barely spoke could make her feel… noticed?

She deleted everything she typed.

*It’s nothing,* she sent instead.

Riley replied instantly.

**Girl, people don’t get “nothing” delivered five days in a row.**

Avery muted her phone.

Near the end of the workday, she stepped into the hallway to drop off a file. As she turned at the corner, she nearly collided with someone tall.

Alexander.

He stopped immediately, one hand lifting in a reflexive, protective gesture as if to steady her before he decided against touching.

“Sorry,” she said quickly, stepping back.

“Are you alright?” His voice was lower up close, quieter.

“Yes. I wasn’t looking.”

He studied her—carefully, almost too carefully. She felt the attention like a physical thing.

“You seem tired,” he said.

“Oh.” She blinked, flustered. “Just… adjusting.”

He didn’t move for a moment. Didn’t speak. The distance between them felt thin, fragile. Not close enough to be inappropriate, but close enough that her pulse stuttered.

Then he stepped aside, giving her room to pass. “Get some rest when you can.”

“Of course.”

Avery walked away first, because if she stayed, she didn’t know what her face would show.

He watched her leave. She didn’t see it, but she felt it in the air behind her.

And for the first time, she wondered—not admitted, just wondered—if she was the only one trying not to cross a line.  

Or if he was trying just as hard.

Both of them holding a distance so subtle it almost wasn’t distance at all.