She felt it too.
Miller pushed off from the wall and climbed back up to the parking garage level. Her car was exactly where she’d left it three hours ago, tucked into a corner spot near the elevator. She got in, put her hands on the steering wheel, but didn’t press the button to start the engine.
Whatwasthat?
The question kept circling, but she couldn’t land on an answer that made sense. She’d been startled, caught off guard by the dropped papers and sudden proximity inside the enclosed space of the elevator. Her body had reacted to the surprise, not to Astoria specifically.
Except she knew that wasn’t true.
Miller had been surprised plenty of times. She’d had people bump into her, grab her arm, and brush against her in crowded spaces. None of it had ever felt likethat. None of it had made her want to lean closer instead of pulling away.
She started the car and drove back to the office on autopilot.
The afternoon was a wash. Miller sat at her desk and stared at the discovery documents that refused to resolve into meaning. She drafted an email three times before realizing she’d addressed it to the wrong client. She picked up her phone to return a call and forgot who she was calling before the first ring was over.
Rachel stopped by around three, leaning against Miller’s doorframe with a file in her hand. “You okay? You seem distracted.”
“Headache.” The lie came out smoothly enough. “I think I’m going to head out early if that’s all right.”
Rachel studied her for a moment then nodded. “Get some rest. We’ve got the Duncan deposition tomorrow. I need you sharp.”
“I will be.”
Miller packed and left before anyone else could ask her questions she didn’t know how to answer.
Her apartment was quiet when she got home.
It was a nice place: two bedrooms in a building that had been converted from an old textile mill, with exposed brick and big windows that let in good light. She’d been proud of it when she signed the lease, her first solo apartment after years of roommates and then the brief, ill-advised experiment of living with Marcus. It was hers, and it suited her.
But today, it felt too still, had too much space for thinking.
Miller dropped her bag by the door and stood in the middle of her living room, not sure what to do with herself. The afternoon sun slanted through the windows, catching dust motes in the air. Her running shoes sat by the door, but her legs felt heavy. The television remote was on the coffee table, but she couldn't imagine sitting still long enough to watch anything.
She ended up in the kitchen, opening cabinets without purpose. She wasn't hungry. She made tea anyway, then let it grow cold on the counter while she leaned against the sink and stared at nothing.
Astoria’s world was nothing like this.
The thought surfaced without warning, and Miller found herself looking around her apartment with new eyes: the secondhand couch she'd reupholstered herself; the bookcases from IKEA, still slightly crooked because she'd assembled them alone and refused to admit defeat; the gallery wall of prints she'd collected from local artists at weekend markets—nothing expensive, just pieces that made her happy.
She thought about the leather folder with the gold clasp, the suit that probably cost more than everything in Miller's closet combined, the watch on Astoria's wrist, simple but unmistakably expensive. Astoria lived in a different universe, one where elevators were worth bribing maintenance staff over because her time was that valuable and where discovery disputes were handled between status conferences and whatever else filled the days of someone who ran a global company.
What would Astoria think of this apartment? The question was absurd. Astoria would never see her apartment, would never have any reason to, but Miller couldn’t stop her brain from wandering down that path. Would she find it charming? Quaint? Would she even notice the difference, or was wealth so ingrained that she’d stopped seeing it?
Miller shook her head and picked up the cold tea. She dumped it in the sink and watched it spiral down the drain.
This was ridiculous. She was standing in her kitchen, thinking about what a woman she barely knew—a woman on the opposing side of an active case, no less—would think of her furniture. As if that was the important question. As if that was what her brain should be fixating on instead of the actual problem.
She’d felt something in that elevator, something she’d never felt before.
Miller moved to the couch and plopped down, pulling her legs up underneath her. The evening light was starting to shift as golden hour approached. She should probably eat something, go for a run, call her moms, or do any of the normal things that filled her otherwise normal evenings.
Instead, she sat there and let herself think about it.
She’d dated men her whole life. Nice men, mostly. Brandon in high school, who’d held her hand at football games and kissed her goodnight on her moms’ porch. Garrett in college, who’dbeen pre-med and steady and had wanted to get serious before she was ready. Trevor, who’d proposed after three years and had been genuinely confused when she couldn’t say yes. Marcus, who’d collected stamps and never pushed for more than she offered.
And most recently, Ethan with eight months of pleasant dinners and forgettable sex and a mutual breakup that had felt more like a relief than loss.
None of them had ever made her feel like that.
