Her heels are weapons. Her perfume could start wars.
“Finally,” she says, clapping once. “You ghosted your own office.”
“Had to breathe,” I reply, setting my bag down.
She eyes me, head tilting. “You look flushed. Don’t tell me you met someone interesting in the stairwell.”
I ignore the jab, moving around her to my chair. “You need something?” The exhaustion settles deep in my bones, heavy and unmoving.
“I’m an efficient boss, ruler of this kingdom.” Her grin sharpens before her head tips back in a laugh, trying so damn hard to bait me out of the dark, moody cloud I’ve become.
“Not funny?” she asks, one brow arched.
“Not in the slightest.”
I bite back at her, a small, crooked smile tugging at the corner of my lips.
She slides off my desk with a triumphant hum. “Ha! Seen it — a slight tug of a grin. That’s one for boss, zero for sadness. Job done. See you later, editor.”
She winks and sweeps out of my office, the echo of her heels clicking down the hall.
When the door shuts behind her, the quiet hums back to life. I exhale, fingertips grazing the edge of my laptop.
I think of Dane—the warmth in his voice, laughter thick and sweet like melted chocolate.
And Blake—the ghost behind the glass, smiling for strangers while his eyes told a different story.
The world keeps spinning.
But inside, something shifts — a pulse, a thread, the faintest spark of truth I’m still too afraid to name.
I start to type, folded in silence, with the taste of dark chocolate still kissing my lips.
That night, the silence followed me home.
I showered, washed off the day, and stood in front of the mirror, towel around my body, steam curling around my reflection. Myskin looked dull, tired. My eyes flat. The kind of eyes that had seen too much and learned to stay quiet about it.
When I wiped the glass, I didn’t see the woman I used to be.
The version of me who laughed easily, who built dreams from scraps and believed in forever.
All I saw was the after.
I padded to my bed, oversized tee clinging to damp skin, hair dripping onto the pillow. My phone sat there like temptation.
I unlocked it. Scrolled past the app. Past the messages I didn’t want to read.
Stopped on one name.
Dane.
No messages exchanged. Just his number glowing back at me like a promise I didn’t know how to keep.
I typed—then deleted.
Thank you.
You didn’t have to do that.
