Chapter 1: Static and Scent
The hum of server fans was white noise to most people. To Lena Virel, it was almost comforting—constant, mechanical, impersonal. She liked it that way.
Most days, the IT floor of Argonix Tech felt like the only part of the company not drowning in artificial charm. No soft marketing voices. No fake smiles near the espresso machine. Just occasional panic when someone forgot their password for the eighth time or spilled coffee into a workstation like it was sacrificial.
She crouched under the desk in Conference Room B, easing a thick blue ethernet cable into the switchboard. Her hands worked fast, automatic. But her mind drifted. Or rather—it followed.
Because he was close.
She didn't need to hear footsteps.
She could feel him.
That scent—clean soap, paper, and the faintest breath of cedarwood—crept in like static. Not loud. Not obvious. Just there. Eliot Chase didn't wear cologne. She knew that. But she could still pick him out of a crowd blindfolded, three floors away.
Her breath caught—just slightly.
God, what is it about you?
It wasn't just that he was different from everyone else—though he was. Quiet, observant, awkward in a way that felt... real. Honest. He didn't preen like the product designers. Didn't swagger like sales. When he moved, it was like he was trying not to disturb the air around him.
And yet he disturbed everything in her.
She swallowed the thought. Refocused.
But then:
"Um… excuse me?"
Her head snapped up. Bang.
She smacked the underside of the desk. Swore under her breath as she slid out—and there he was. Eliot, standing just inside the door, holding a very dead laptop against his chest like a wounded animal.
"I think I killed it," he said, eyes wide behind his glasses.
Lena blinked. Then smirked. "Murder by coffee, or…?"
"No. Not this time." He held it out like a confession. "It just blue-screened."
She took it from him, their fingers almost touching. Almost.
The static charge still hit. Like a spark on dry leaves.
"I'll take a look. Want to stay while I run the diagnostics?"
He hesitated. Then nodded. Quiet. Careful.
Inside the server room, he tucked himself into the far chair like he was trying not to disturb the cables. The room was small—just enough space for two chairs, a desk stacked with old processors, and enough dust to suggest mild disapproval.
She powered up the machine and watched him from the edge of her vision.
He was chewing his lip.
Did he even know he did that when he was nervous?
"I like your necklace," he said, voice soft but sincere.
She blinked. Her fingers lifted, almost reflexively, to the pendant—dark metal, etched with a symbol no one at Argonix would recognize.
"Thanks," she said. "Old family thing."
His gaze lingered. Not rude. Just... thoughtful.
Then, quietly: "You always smell like rosemary."
She froze.
Turned her head slowly.
He flinched. "Shit, sorry—that was weird. I didn't mean it in a creepy way. Just, sometimes when you walk by, it's... nice."
She didn't speak for a long moment.
Then, very softly, "It's in my shampoo."
Half-true.
"It's working," he said, then went pink.
She leaned in just slightly. "You say that like you've tested it."
He swallowed. "I—no. I mean—not on purpose. I just... notice things."
"I bet you do," she murmured.
The laptop beeped, mercifully. She looked back at the screen.
"Bad RAM stick. I'll swap it out—twenty minutes, tops."
Eliot stood, awkward. "Thanks. I... owe you."
"You do."
He paused. "Maybe coffee?"
"Maybe," she said, locking eyes with him.
He looked startled "Like....with me"
"Unless you planned on owing me caffeine from across the room."
He blinked.
Then laughed—quick, breathy, too honest to be anything but real.
"No, no—coffee with you. Yeah. Good."
When he left, she didn't move.
Not right away.
She waited until the door clicked shut and then exhaled.
Her fingers still tingled.
She sat there for a moment, eyes half-closed, dragging the memory of his scent into her lungs like it was some kind of drug.
Gods, you're a freak.
Her apartment was tucked on the city's edge—far enough from coworkers, close enough to avoid questions. Second floor. Reinforced windows. Three locks on the door. The scent of iron and wild herbs clung to the air like memory.
The laptop bag hit the floor with a dull thud.
Lights stayed off.
She didn't need them.
Lena stepped out of her boots and moved barefoot through the dark, the muscles in her back tight, coiled. She crossed to the far wall and dropped onto the couch without ceremony.
Only one thing broke the sterile stillness of the room: the corkboard above her desk.
Not art. Not photos. Just information. Post-it notes, USBs, drive backups.
And in the top corner, pinned like an afterthought:
A grainy photo.
Snapped from across the street. A man in a brown cardigan, stepping out of a bookstore.
Eliot.
She told herself it was a fluke. She happened to be nearby. Happened to see him. Happened to take the picture.
That had been three months ago.
She stared at it now.
His mouth was open in mid-sentence. Talking to someone out of frame. His eyes soft. Off guard.
His voice lived somewhere in her bones. Gentle. Unassuming. The kind of voice that slid under skin, slow and persistent.
Most men made her defenses rise.
He made her want to take them off.
Not safe, her instincts whispered. But not in fear.
In hunger.
She rose. Moved to the bathroom.
Stripped off her shirt. Ran her fingers along the scars across her ribs—old lines, thick and pale, carved there by something older than memory. Her skin felt raw under them, like something inside her was pacing again. Like it wanted out.
She turned the shower on—not for the water. For the noise.
The world always got too loud inside her head at night.
She stood under the steam and let it rise around her like a second skin.
Tomorrow, she'd see him again.
And she didn't know how much longer she could pretend it didn't mean something.
Didn't want something.
Didn't need.