The day unfolded in fragments—meetings, messages, glances she tried not to read too deeply. Amelia held herself together through all of it, but the tension beneath her ribs never loosened. Every time her phone buzzed, she anticipated seeing one of their names. Every time she walked down the hallway, she prepared herself to run into one of them.

By late afternoon, she felt stretched thin.

She slipped into an empty focus room with glass walls and a single chair, hoping for ten quiet minutes. She closed her eyes, inhaling slowly, letting the hum of the building settle into a low, grounding noise.

Then a soft knock broke the silence.

She opened her eyes.

Mason stood at the door, holding a notebook, hovering like he wasn’t sure if he should cross the threshold.

“Amelia?”

She exhaled. “You can come in.”

He entered carefully, shutting the door behind him. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. You looked… like you needed quiet.”

“I did,” she admitted.

His expression softened. “Rough day?”

“Complicated more than rough.”

“That sounds… about right.”

He hesitated, notebook shifting in his hands. “I wanted to ask if you could look at something real quick. But if you need space, I can come back later.”

“No,” she said. “It’s fine. Show me.”

He pulled up a wireframe, slightly nervous. They stood close enough to see the same screen, shoulders nearly touching. The design was thoughtful, clean—but he wasn’t asking about the layout.

“I want to know if this feels honest,” he said quietly.

She blinked. “Honest?”

“Yeah. Like… when you use it, you feel like the product understands what you’re feeling. You’re good at noticing that kind of thing.”

Her chest tightened—not at the request, but at the sincerity behind it.

She studied the wireframe, focusing on the emotional cues embedded in the flow. “It does feel honest,” she said. “You didn’t try too hard. That’s the difference.”

Mason let out a relieved breath. “Good. I didn’t want it to feel like I was pretending.”

“You don’t pretend,” she said without thinking.

His eyes flicked to her—warm, bright, caught off guard.

“Amelia…”

Before he could step any closer, the door opened.

Lucas.

He stopped when he saw them—standing close, Mason holding a laptop, Amelia leaning toward him. His expression didn’t shift outwardly, but the pause was unmistakable.

“Sorry,” Lucas said. “I didn’t realize the room was in use.”

Mason straightened. “We were just finishing.”

Amelia nodded. “It’s okay, Mason. Go ahead. I’ll follow up later.”

Mason hesitated—looking at her as if he wanted to say more, but Lucas’s presence changed the air. “Okay,” he said finally, and slipped past Lucas into the hall.

Lucas stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

Amelia braced herself for tension, for the conversation she didn’t have the emotional space for.

But Lucas simply asked, “Are you all right?”

She blinked. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

“Because you look like you’re holding something heavy.”

She sat back in the chair, rubbing her temple. “I’m fine. Really.”

Lucas leaned against the table—controlled, composed, but with a kind of gentleness he rarely showed. “I’m not here to pull anything out of you. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t overwhelmed.”

She let out a short, humorless laugh. “Too late for that.”

“So you are overwhelmed.”

“Lucas—”

He held up a hand. “I’m not asking you to explain.”

She looked up. His expression was calm, but his eyes carried a quiet intensity that left nowhere to hide.

“I didn’t come to push,” he said. “I came because… I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

She froze.

“I’m not hurt,” she whispered.

“No,” Lucas said. “You’re tired. And when you get tired, you stop letting anyone close.”

Her breath faltered.

The room felt smaller again. Not because he crowded her, but because the truth did.

“Amelia,” Lucas said softly, “tell me what you need from me right now.”

She swallowed. “I don’t know.”

“Then tell me what you don’t need.”

She looked at him—really looked—and the answer rose before she could stop it.

“I don’t need you to step back,” she said.

Lucas went still. A beat passed, heavy.

“All right,” he said quietly. “I won’t.”

Her pulse skittered.

“But,” she added, voice shaking just slightly, “I need you to… slow down. Just a little.”

Something in Lucas’s expression shifted—not disappointment, not withdrawal—

Understanding.

“Then I’ll follow your pace,” he said.

The words landed deep, steady.

Before she could respond, footsteps passed outside the glass. Mason’s silhouette moved across the hallway, unaware of them inside. Lucas’s gaze flicked toward the blurred figure, then back to her.

“You don’t have to choose,” he said. “Not now.”

She nodded, but the knot inside her didn’t loosen.

He stepped toward the door. “I’ll give you the room. Take as long as you need.”

“Lucas.”

He paused.

“Thank you.”

He dipped his head—a gesture so small yet so unguarded she felt it like heat.

Then he left.

Alone again, Amelia pressed both hands to her face.

Two people.  

Two kinds of closeness.  

Both willing to wait.

And her heart, caught in the middle, beating louder than she wanted to admit.