Maya didn’t know what to say after that, so she didn’t say anything. She just stood there while the dust floated in the sunbeams and the room hummed with old quiet.

Evan wasn’t looking at her now. He was looking around the warehouse like he was seeing pieces of a life he hadn’t talked about in years.

Finally he spoke. “My dad wanted to sell this place.”

“What stopped him?”

“I did.”

She blinked. “You?”

“I was twenty. I didn’t know anything. But I said no.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” He paused. “Maybe I didn’t want the whole story to disappear. Maybe I wanted to keep something real.”

Maya felt her chest pull tight. “And you still come back here.”

“Sometimes.”

“And today you didn’t want to come alone.”

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

She leaned against a crate, arms crossed loosely. “So what do you do when you’re here? Besides brood dramatically in corners.”

He almost smiled. “Mostly nothing.”

“Sounds productive.”

“It’s not meant to be productive.”

“So… what, you just stand around until the ghosts give you business advice?”

He huffed out a breath. “Something like that.”

She glanced at him. “Were you close with your grandfather?”

“I don’t know.” He paused. “He died when I was nine. I don’t remember him well. Just that he worked constantly, and he smelled like cedar.”

Maya nodded slowly. “Sounds like someone who made things with his hands.”

“Yes.”

“And now you’re here trying to decide if you still do.”

He looked at her then—sharp, startled, like she’d reached into a part of him he didn’t think was showing.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she said. “I’m just talking.”

“You’re not wrong.”

She shrugged. “I usually am.”

“Not this time.”

They stood there for another long moment. Dust hung in the air like it was waiting for a cue.

Evan finally straightened. “Come with me.”

“Again?”

“Yes.”

“This is how kidnapping actually starts.”

“Noted.”

He led her toward the back of the warehouse, past crates and metal shelving. They stopped where a large wooden door stood slightly open. Evan pushed it fully open.

Inside was a smaller room—almost like a forgotten workshop. Tools on the walls. Old jars filled with screws. A single light hanging from a wire. And against the back wall was a table covered in stacked papers and notebooks.

“What’s this?” Maya asked.

“His notes,” Evan said quietly. “My grandfather’s.”

She looked at the notebooks. They were worn, yellowed at the edges, covered in handwritten sketches and diagrams.

“You’ve read these?” she asked.

“Some.”

“Why show me?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

Then he said, “Because you see things differently. And I… needed someone who doesn’t look at this like a business artifact.”

Maya carefully touched the corner of one page. “It’s weird seeing his handwriting.”

“It is.”

“Feels like you’re looking at a person, not a product.”

He nodded once.

She flipped a few pages gently. “These are… rough.”

“He wasn’t polished.”

“That’s what makes it good.”

Evan looked at her again, something quieter in his face.

“You keep saying that,” he said.

“Saying what?”

“That imperfection is good.”

“Because it is.”

He leaned back against the wall. “I forgot that somewhere.”

“Easy to forget when you have a company and people yelling at you about perfection every ten minutes.”

He breathed out a slow laugh. “You’re not wrong.”

She set the notebook down carefully. “So what’s the actual reason you brought me here?”

He didn’t move at first.

Then he said, “Because I didn’t want today to be about work. And you’re the only person I could think of who wouldn’t make this place feel heavier.”

Her throat tightened. “That sounds like a lot of pressure.”

“It’s not.”

“It feels like it.”

“It’s not,” he said again, softer.

She looked away. “I don’t know how to be important to someone.”

“You’re not trying. That’s why it works.”

Her breath caught.

She stepped back from the table, suddenly needing to move, but the room wasn’t big enough. She paced once, then forced herself still.

“This is so weird,” she said.

“I know.”

“I’m not good at this.”

“I don’t need you to be good at anything.”

“That makes it worse.”

“Why?”

“Because then I can’t fix it.”

“You’re not supposed to fix anything.”

“That makes it even worse.”

He blinked. “How?”

“Because then it’s real.”

Silence filled the room, heavy but not uncomfortable.

Evan took a small step closer—not close enough to touch her, but close enough that she felt it.

“Maya,” he said quietly.

She didn’t look up.

“Maya.”

She finally met his eyes.

He didn’t say anything dramatic. He didn’t reach for her. He didn’t change expression in a way that demanded something from her.

He just looked at her like she mattered.

She had to look away before her chest gave out.

“Can we go?” she asked.

“Of course.”

He closed the notebook gently, like he was putting something important back where it belonged.

They walked out of the smaller room and back into the wide warehouse space. The sunlight had shifted, softer now, lying flatter on the floor.

As they headed for the door, Maya said, “You still tense?”

“No.”

“Because of me?”

“Yes.”

“That’s weird.”

“I know.”

“Stop agreeing.”

He smiled. “Not possible.”

She shook her head but didn’t fight him.

They stepped outside. The air felt lighter, or maybe that was her.

At the car, Evan opened the passenger door for her.

“You don’t have to,” she said.

“I know.”

“But you do.”

“Yes.”

She got in.

He closed the door gently, walked around the car, and for a moment—just a moment—Maya felt something she had been trying very hard not to name.

Something dangerous.

Something warm.

Something that was already happening, whether she admitted it or not.