Avery woke before her alarm on the eighth morning, but this time it wasn’t nerves. It was something harder to name—an awareness that felt like waking up with a thought already in her hands.

She moved slower than usual, careful in a way that made no sense, as if the wrong step might break whatever fragile balance she had managed to hold onto the day before. By the time she reached the office, the building was fully alive. People streamed in, coffee cups clutched like lifelines, conversations blending into the weekday hum.

She turned the last corner toward her desk.

The lunch bag wasn’t there.

For a moment she stopped walking altogether.

She shouldn’t have reacted. She shouldn’t have felt anything. It wasn’t something she was supposed to expect, and it certainly wasn’t something promised. But the sudden absence created a hollow space she didn’t know how to fill.

Maybe they changed procedures.  

Maybe someone else needed priority.  

Maybe it had never meant anything in the first place.

She forced her steps forward and sat down. She opened her laptop, let the screen brighten her face, and tried to push the uncomfortable weight out of her chest.

At 9:13, a soft knock landed on the side of her desk.

A junior staff member stood there, holding a familiar bag—the exact same fold, the exact same white label with her name. It wasn’t missing. It was late.

“Sorry, they mixed up the routing this morning,” he said. “High-priority deliveries got sent to the wrong floor. This one was supposed to go straight to you.”

“Oh,” Avery said, too quickly. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” He grinned. “Lucky you, though. This one smells amazing.”

He left before she could react, and she stared at the bag like it was a question she wasn’t ready to answer.

Late, not gone.  

Delayed, not forgotten.

Her chest felt warm in a way she didn’t want to identify.

She pushed herself into work to steady her breathing. It worked until ten-thirty, when an email notification appeared on her screen.

**From: Alexander Reed  

Subject: Q4 revisions**

Her pulse stopped for one beat, then rushed back too fast.

The email was short:

*Avery,  

Send me your adjusted timeline before noon.  

—A*

No title.  

No “Collins.”  

No distance.

Just her name, and his initial, and the quiet familiarity of it.

She sent the file within minutes, then tried not to think about whether he was on the 39th floor reading it.

Half an hour later, Jenna approached with a tablet.

“Collins, Reed wants you upstairs again. Analysis room.”

Again.

Her stomach tightened. Not in dread—something closer to anticipation she refused to name.

She took the elevator. When the doors opened to the quiet marble hallway, she felt the same shift in air she’d felt before—like the floor had its own kind of gravity.

The analysis room door was open, light spilling onto the hall. She stepped inside.

Alexander stood at the table, reviewing her timeline. He didn’t look up immediately, but the moment he sensed movement, he did—quickly, almost instinctively.

“Morning,” he said.

It was the softest version of his voice she had heard so far.

“Good morning, sir.”

He tapped the table lightly. “Your projections—why did you shorten the transition period?”

“It reduced the margin of error,” she said. “Or… I thought it did.”

“It did,” he said. “I just wanted to know your reason.”

He wasn’t questioning her.  

He was asking to understand her.

He closed the file and rested his hands on the table. “You see things the others don’t.”

Avery blinked. “I—I just try to be careful.”

“You’re more than careful.”

The room felt smaller than before.

Then he asked quietly, “Did the lunch arrive late this morning?”

Her heart almost stopped.

“How—how did you know?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His gaze shifted just slightly, as if deciding how much of himself to reveal.

“It usually arrives before you do,” he said. “And the routing issue affected anything high-priority.”

Her breath stalled. High-priority. The same phrase she’d been told on the second day. Except hearing it from him sounded different—more intentional, more real.

He continued, voice even. “I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t missed.”

Her fingers tightened at her sides. “It wasn’t. Just late.”

“Good.”

The word was simple. But the way he said it—low, relieved, almost warm—felt anything but simple.

He stepped back slightly, as if aware of how close their conversation was drifting to something unspoken.

“We’ll need your timeline adjustments for the board review next week,” he said, returning to formality. “You’ll assist with the prep.”

“I can do that.”

“I know.”

It was the quiet confidence in those two words that unraveled her more than any compliment.

She gathered her folder and stepped back, preparing to leave. She reached the door—but before she could touch it, his voice stopped her again.

“Avery.”

She turned slowly.

He didn’t move. Didn’t soften. But his eyes held something she hadn’t seen clearly until now—something restrained, steady, and undeniably focused on her.

“You did well,” he said.

Her breath caught. Not because of the words, but because of the way he looked at her when he said them—like he meant them more than he should.

“Thank you,” she managed.

She left the room with careful steps, afraid the floor might shift under her feet.

In the elevator, she pressed the button for the 14th floor and stared at her faint reflection in the metal doors.

For the first time, she realized something she had been avoiding for days:

It wasn’t that she didn’t understand.

It was that she did—  

and she didn’t know what to do with that understanding.