He moves around his desk with deliberate calm, closing the distance between us. Without a word, he takes the file from my hands, setting it aside. His fingers are warm against mine for just a moment, and I realize how cold I've gone.
"Are you alright?" he asks.
I shake my head, too stunned to speak. I can't get my mind together.
Then he does something that changes everything.
His hand lifts, and he brushes a strand of hair that's escaped my bun back behind my ear. The touch is gentle, protective, and his jaw tightens as his gaze flicks toward the door.
"Is someone out there bothering you?"
I manage a nod, not trusting my voice to remain steady.
His eyes darken to the color of storm clouds. When he speaks again, his voice drops to a growl that sends unexpected heat racing down my spine. "If he came here for you, then he just made a big mistake."
The careful professional distance I've maintained for three months evaporates. All those late nights when the office felt too quiet, and the air between us felt charged. The lingering glances across conference rooms. The almost touches at the small of my back when we walk through doorways. The way he always seems to know when I need coffee before I ask.
Something shifts in my chest, terrifying and exhilarating at once.
I've been working with Dylan Vance as legal counsel for about three months now. He appeared to be incredibly understanding when I suddenly asked for two weeks off after what happened with Oliver, having worked at the position for barely two months. I hid away in Jess' forest house, broken and consuming chips and ice cream, watching Netflix nonstop. But I didn't want to fail Dylan. So I gathered myself up—with Jess's help—and returned to work to drown in it, to forget, to be normal again, and move forward with my life. And everything was fine until Oliver found me.
Dylan picks up his phone, his movements precise and controlled. "Security? This is Vance. There's an unauthorized individual in the executive lobby. Remove him immediately." A pause. "No, I don't care if he says he knows an employee. He's trespassing. Escort him out and make sure he understands he's not welcome back."
He ends the call and turns back to me, his expression softening slightly. "Come on. Let's get you somewhere you can sit down."
His hand hovers near my elbow, not quite touching but close enough that I feel the warmth as he guides me to a conference room down the hall. The space is quiet, afternoon sun streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city.
"Do you need anything? Water? Coffee?" His voice is careful now, gentle in a way that makes my chest ache.
"I'm okay." The lie slips out automatically. "Thank you. I'm sorry for barging into your office like that."
"Avery." He says my name like it matters. LikeImatter. "You never have to apologize for needing help."
Our eyes meet, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. Then his phone buzzes, breaking the spell.
"I have to take this," he says, genuine regret coloring his voice. "But if you need anything..."
"I'm fine. Really."
Another lie, but I've gotten good at those.
I make it through the rest of the morning on autopilot. Emails blur together. Meeting notes might as well be written in a foreign language. Every time someone walks past my office, my body tenses, expecting to see Oliver's face.
By five o'clock, I'm holding myself together with mental duct tape and sheer determination. The commute home passes in a blur of brake lights and half-formed thoughts. My apartment building comes into view—a converted Victorian in Nob Hill with bay windows and original hardwood floors. My other safe haven.
Just a few more feet up the stairs. Just get inside. Then you can fall apart.
My new apartment smells like vanilla candles and the lavender plant on the windowsill. Soft cream walls, plush throws in jewel tones draped over my reading chair, warm Edison bulbs casting golden light over everything.
I make it exactly three steps in before my phone rings.
Jessica's photo fills the screen—the one from last Christmas where she's wearing the terrible sweater Mom knitted, laughing so hard her eyes are squeezed shut.
"Hey," I answer, trying to inject normalcy into my voice.
"Are you okay?" No preamble. No small talk. Just my sister, reading me like she always does.
The walls I've been holding up all day crumble like sandcastles against the tide.
