Chapter 11: Working Late
The office had gone still hours ago.
Desks sat empty, lights dimmed to a soft, ambient glow. Somewhere in the distance, the quiet hum of the AC kept the silence from swallowing the floor whole.
Lexi sat at her desk, the glow from her screen reflecting off her glasses. Her blazer hung on the back of her chair, heels kicked off, hair loosened from the tight clip she'd worn all day.
She didn't mean to stay this late.
But she wasn't ready to leave either.
The mock-ups had taken on a life of their own. Clean lines. Subtle tones. Everything the gala needed to feel effortless. She'd lost track of time hours ago. There was a certain comfort in working late like this—when the office emptied and the world narrowed to just her and the cursor blinking steadily on the screen.
Her fingers danced across the keyboard, adjusting layer after layer, detail after detail. It was her zone, the quiet space where she stopped overthinking and simply created.
She didn't even notice the soft click at first.
Not the elevator. A door. Nearby. On this floor.
Lexi's fingers paused.
She turned her head slightly. The sound of footsteps followed. Slow. Measured. There was only one person who walked like that in this building.
Ethan.
"Still here," his voice came, low and quiet.
She turned to face him. "I wanted to fix the transitions. The lighting felt off in the ballroom renderings."
He didn't reply right away, just walked forward with calm precision. No looseness in his posture. Just composed grace.
"You've done a lot."
She shrugged. "It's not perfect."
"Doesn't need to be. Just needs to hold."
Lexi studied his face, the way the low ceiling light caught the lines of his jaw. His tie was gone, sleeves rolled. Something about seeing him like this—less polished, more human—made her chest tighten.
He walked closer, stopping beside her desk.
"May I?" he asked.
She nodded and angled the screen toward him.
He leaned in, just enough to review the mock-up.
Lexi stilled. He didn't touch her, but she felt the heat of him beside her—an invisible thread pulling taut.
He tapped a few keys. Adjusted something. The stage lighting shifted into balance.
"I wasn't sure about that layer," she whispered.
"You corrected it."
No praise. Just quiet affirmation. But it landed somewhere deep in her chest.
They both stood still.
The space between them thickened.
She became aware of the way her pulse thudded softly in her throat. Of how the hum of the ceiling lights sounded suddenly louder.
He hadn't moved. Neither had she.
Two still figures. Two storm fronts just out of reach.
"I didn't expect you to be working late," she said softly.
"I forgot something," Ethan replied.
She didn't believe him.
Her voice faltered, but she pushed through. "You work like someone who…"
He stopped.
"Never mind," he said, voice clipped.
Lexi looked back to the screen. "You always correct people that way?"
He didn't answer that either. Just stepped back slowly.
The silence stretched between them—not awkward, but heavy.
She saved her file, gathered her planner and pen. He stood nearby, watching but not hovering.
They walked together through the quiet corridor—glass and steel casting muted reflections along the walls.
At the end of the hallway, the private exit door slid open with a soft click.
She reached forward.
His hand moved too. Close. Almost brushing hers.
Lexi's breath caught.
"Scarlet won't be an issue," Ethan said, voice low.
She stilled.
"She doesn't decide what happens here."
Lexi turned slowly. There was nothing in his face but calm. Yet beneath it, she sensed something else—something unspoken, simmering.
"Okay," she said.
It was all she could manage.
They stepped outside into the night air. The city stretched wide before them—cool and endless. The wind caught the hem of her skirt, sweeping it lightly around her knees.
For a moment, she didn't move.
She turned slightly, met his eyes.
He was already watching her.
The moment felt suspended—like an elevator between floors. Not rising. Not falling. Just… waiting.
"I'll see you tomorrow," she said.
Ethan gave a small nod. "Yes."
She walked ahead. He stayed back. She didn't look over her shoulder.
But she felt it—the way his gaze lingered long after she was gone.
Later That Night
Lexi sat curled on her bed, an oversized T-shirt draped over her knees. Her planner lay open beside her, ink smudged faintly where her hand had pressed too hard.
Don't shrink. Don't run. Just keep building.
The words felt different tonight. Not just motivational. Not even aspirational.
Something had shifted.
He hadn't smiled. He hadn't touched her. But she felt it in the silence.
The way he stood beside her like he belonged there.
The way he adjusted a graphic instead of correcting her.
The way he didn't apologize for Scarlet—he dismissed her.
Lexi leaned back into the pillows, heart thudding slowly.
He'd said her name once. She hadn't even noticed at first.
But now she couldn't stop hearing it.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Maya lit the screen.
Maya: You okay? Heard Scarlet stormed in like a Bond villain. 👀
Lexi smiled faintly, but didn't type back.
She opened her notes app instead. Typed one line.
> He stood so close, but said almost nothing.
Another pause.
And yet it felt like everything.
She closed her eyes, the city lights casting a soft blue on the ceiling above her.
She was falling—and she knew it.
But not in the way people warned about.
This wasn't about charm or flattery or promises.
It was about presence.
And his had never felt so loud.