While he orders, I stretch in my chair because my back has been aching from hunching over my laptop without moving. The office feels different in the evening light—less corporate, more intimate. Just the two of us surrounded by the soft glow of his desk lamp, the city a glittering backdrop beyond the windows.
“Food’s on the way,” Noah says, setting down his phone. “Twenty minutes.”
He picks up his pencil again, but I notice the new tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes keep flitting to the clock.
“It’s going to be fine,” I tell him, my voice softer than I intend. “We’re going to make the deadlineandget some sleep before the meeting.”Unfortunately, not together.I don’t say the last part out loud. I hope.
He runs a hand through his hair, making it stand up in that way that shouldn’t be attractive but somehow is. “You don’t know that.”
“I do, actually.” I gesture to his drawing, nearly complete now. “Because you’re almost done, and I’ve already compiled all the supporting documentation. We just need to finalize and submit.”
He studies me for a moment, those dark eyes searching mine like he’s looking for the catch. “Why are you being nice to me?”
The question catches me off guard—I thought we were past that. “I’m not being nice,” I say automatically. “I’m doing my job.”
“Bullshit.” He leans forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “You could have left hours ago. Could have let me deal with this mess on my own. I sure as fuck deserve that. Why stay?”
I consider lying to the question he keeps repeating, clearly not satisfied with my professional answer about dedication to the project or wanting to impress my new boss. But something about the way the city lights illuminate half his face and the way I kept asking the same question a year ago, because the real answer was very important, makes me reckless with honesty.
“Because I know what it’s like to be drowning and have everyone just watch,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “And I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. I would want someone to give me a hand.”
His eyes widen slightly, the corners of his lips point downward. For a moment, I think he might actually say something vulnerable back, but then his phone buzzes with a text from a delivery driver.
“Food’s downstairs,” he says, pushing back from his desk. “I’ll go grab it.”
I nod, grateful for the reprieve from the honesty. My heart’s beating too fast, and I need a moment to collect myself. This is dangerous territory. Seeing Noah as a person with actual feelings, instead of just my arrogant, demanding boss who left me alone to fight my demons a year ago, makes it harder to maintain the wall of indifference I’ve carefully constructed. Even the past week being drama-free and him bribing me with lunches didn’t bond us as much as him destroying his office did.
When he returns with the food, we eat in relative silence, the only sounds are the occasional rustle of paper bags and the scratch of his pencil as he puts the finishing touches on the drawing. I steal glances at him between bites of pad thai, watching the way he works even while eating. The man is not wasting a moment of this precious time we have left before the meeting.
“You never actually answered my question,” I say finally, setting down my empty container. “The one about your scars.”
Noah’s pencil stills, his grip tightening around it. I watch the muscle in his jaw work, wondering if I picked the right time to throw this bomb at him.
“You don’t want to know,” he says finally, not looking up from his drawing.
“Actually, I do.” I lean back in my chair, studying his profile in the lamplight. “You’ve been staring at mine for weeks. Fair’s fair.”
His eyes snap to mine, dark and intense. “You don’t have scars.”
“Don’t I?” I touch my chest unconsciously, where invisible wounds from years of my parents’ calculated cruelty still ache to this day. “Just because you can’t see them doesn’t mean they’re not there.”
Recognition settles heavily in his body as his shoulders drop under its weight. We stare at each other across the desk, filling the air with things neither of us will say. The city hums beyond the windows, but in here, it feels like we’re the only two people in the world.
“Fighting,” he says finally, his voice rough. “Before I learned better ways to deal with things that made me angry.”
I nod, not pushing for more even though I want to. The fact that he told me anything at all feels like progress.
“Better ways like destroying office furniture?” I tease gently, trying to lighten the moment.
A ghost of a smile crosses his lips. “That’s property damage, not assault. A better charge if you ask me.”
“Ah, so you’ve moved up in the world,” I say, unable to stop the small smile from forming on my lips. “From punching people to punching furniture. I’d say it’s progress.”
He snorts, actually snorts, and the sound is so unexpected it makes my chest do the weird flutter thing it’s been doing a lot around him lately. “Let’s just say I found more productive outlets.”
“Like architecture?” I ask, genuinely curious now. Something about the late hour and shared food has opened something up between us.
Noah’s serious eyes meet mine. “Drawing calms the noise. Always has.” He taps his temple with his pencil. “Up here. It gets loud sometimes.”
