Avery woke before her alarm, heart already beating too fast for someone who hadn’t even gotten out of bed yet. She stared at the ceiling for several long seconds, feeling that heavy mix of dread and something she couldn’t name—anticipation, maybe. Or the fear of anticipation. Both felt equally unsafe.

She sat up slowly, rubbed her eyes, and exhaled. Today would be normal. Today had to be normal.

Except she didn’t believe that anymore.

By the time she arrived at Reed Financial, the building was already buzzing. Conversations wrapped around corners; shoes clicked sharply against the polished floors. She stepped out of the elevator with her shoulders slightly tense, quietly hoping she wouldn’t hear anything the moment she reached her floor.

She didn’t. Not at first.

But when she approached her desk, she froze.

The lunch box wasn’t just there.

It was *different* today.

A small paper note sat on top—company-branded, clean, impersonal, but with handwriting she recognized instantly.

A.  

And below it, one line:

*Confirm you ate today.*

Avery’s breath caught so sharply she had to sit down before her knees gave out.

He had never left a note before.

She stared at the handwriting—controlled strokes, no flourish, nothing unnecessary. Typical Alexander. Direct. Simple. But the simplicity made it worse, because it meant he had decided to do this on purpose. He had taken five extra seconds out of whatever impossible schedule he had… to write this.

And now the note sat like a quiet message meant only for her—yet also like a flare in the middle of her desk for anyone passing by to see.

She tucked it under the lunch box quickly, heartbeat thudding against her ribs.

Someone sat at the desk next to hers and glanced over. “New perk?”

Avery jolted. “No—no. It’s nothing.”

They raised an eyebrow, but didn’t push. They didn’t have to. Her reaction said enough.

She buried herself in work. Numbers were safe. Numbers didn’t stare or whisper or make assumptions. But she kept catching herself glancing toward the lunch box, as if it might reveal more answers if she looked long enough.

Around nine-fifteen, Jenna arrived.

“Morning, Collins.” Then she stopped. “You’re pale.”

Avery shook her head. “Just didn’t sleep well.”

Jenna looked at her desk, at the lunch box, at the slightly misplaced edge that hid the note.

It took half a second for Jenna’s eyes to narrow just slightly.

“A new… message?” she asked carefully.

Avery froze. “It’s—nothing important.”

Jenna didn’t push. “If you need a minute before you start, take it.”

Avery nodded mutely.

But she didn’t take a minute.

She dove into the variance dataset like it might drown out her spiraling thoughts. It didn’t. Every time she reached a number that reminded her of Q4 projections—or cross-checking—or the last few meetings—they all looped back to him.

By eleven, her inbox pinged.

—from: A.Reed  

subject: Bring it up.

Three words again. Steady. Expected. But under today’s circumstances, they felt heavier.

She stood and gathered the printed summary, hoping she looked more composed than she felt.

As she walked toward the elevator, two people from the strategic planning team passed by.

“…she’s going up again?”  

“Obviously. He’s made her practically part of his routine.”

Avery kept her gaze ahead, breath tightening. The elevator doors closed mercifully, and she leaned back against the wall, willing her pulse to slow.

When she stepped off on the thirty-ninth floor, she forced her shoulders straight. She wasn’t going to fall apart before she even saw him.

The analysis room door was closed today.

She knocked softly.

“Come in,” Alexander said.

She opened the door—and stopped.

He was standing closer than usual. Not behind the table, not near the display, but only a few steps from the door, as if he’d been waiting there.

His expression didn’t change much, but his eyes did. Something in them eased the instant he saw her.

“Avery.”

Her name sounded like relief. She wasn’t sure how to handle that.

She closed the door behind her. “I brought the summary.”

“Good. Sit.”

He pulled a chair out for her. He had never done that before. Her heart stumbled so hard she almost missed the motion.

She sat slowly while he remained standing, flipping through the report with quiet intensity. The analysis room was silent—a deeper kind of quiet than usual. Not cold. Not formal.

Just… close.

“You corrected the allocation pattern,” he said.

“Yes. It didn’t match the earlier cycle.”

“You were right.” He glanced at her before looking down again. “Anything you weren’t sure about?”

Avery hesitated. “Just the travel adjustments, but—”

“You handled them correctly.” His tone softened. “You usually do.”

Her chest tightened.

He continued scanning, page after page, until he finally closed the folder with deliberate care.

“You’ve been carrying more weight than you should.”

The words hit her before she could prepare. “I—what do you mean?”

“You’re dealing with more than the work itself.”

Her breath stilled.

He wasn’t guessing. He knew.

He set the packet down. “People are talking.”

Avery’s pulse jumped painfully. “I don’t know what they’re saying, exactly, but—”

“They’re speculating.” His jaw flexed. “About you. And why I keep asking for you.”

She swallowed hard. “And why *do* you?”

For a second—half a second—his composure shifted.

Only slightly. But enough.

Then he said, quietly but clearly, “Because your work is good. Because you see things others miss. Because I trust your judgment.”

Her lungs finally let air in again.

But then he added, softer: “And because you work better with me.”

Her breath caught.

The space between them felt suddenly too small. She didn’t look away. Couldn’t.

He did, just briefly—like the weight of the moment had pulled his gaze elsewhere. When he lifted his eyes again, they were steadier.

“You’re not responsible for what people say,” he said.

“But they think—”

“They don’t know anything.” His voice was firm. “And they won’t.”

Avery didn’t know whether that should comfort her or hurt.

She looked down at her hands. “I’m trying not to let it affect me.”

“I know.”

His voice was quieter now. Almost gentle.

“You don’t have to tell me everything,” he said, “but I know when something is weighing on you.”

She lifted her head slowly. “How?”

He didn’t look away.

“Because I pay attention.”

Her stomach dropped. Or rose. She couldn’t tell.

Silence settled—soft, charged, almost tangible.

He took a small step back, as if he sensed how close the moment was to tipping over some invisible edge.

“There’s a cross-department session later this afternoon,” he said. “You don’t have to join.”

Avery blinked. “I thought you wanted my read.”

“I do.” He hesitated—Alexander Reed actually hesitated. “But I don’t want to put you in a position that makes things harder.”

Something warm and unsteady moved through her chest.

“I can handle it,” she said quietly, surprising herself.

He held her gaze. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

He nodded, slow and almost reluctant, like he wasn’t entirely convinced but decided to trust her anyway.

As she stood to leave, he spoke again—barely above a breath.

“Avery.”

She turned.

His eyes held hers in a way that made everything else fade.

“If anything is said to you today… you come find me.”

Her heartbeat thudded painfully. “Okay.”

“And Avery—”

Her breath caught.

“You did well.”

It was the gentlest he had ever said it.

She didn’t remember leaving the analysis room. She didn’t remember the elevator ride down. All she knew was that when she sat at her desk again, her hands were still unsteady.

People whispered. Someone asked if she was going up again later. Someone else joked lightly about her “VIP access.”

She barely heard any of it.

Because for the first time, her fear wasn’t that people would think something was happening.

Her fear was that something really was.

Something she didn’t know how to name.  

Something she wasn’t sure she should touch.  

Something close enough that if she reached out—

She might actually feel it.