I leave my office.
The floor is buzzing with the usual midday noise, phones ringing, keyboards clicking, whispered gossip humming through the air.
I spot her instantly.
Ruby is walking fast, head down, clutching a stack of folders like a shield.
She’s avoiding me.
Of course she is.
She turns down the side hallway, the quieter one, and I follow.
She senses me before she sees me. Her shoulders stiffen. Her steps quicken.
“Ruby,” I say softly.
She freezes like I’ve touched her spine.
She turns around slowly, eyes wide, like a deer caught between fear and fascination.
“Morning again,” I say, stepping closer.
She takes half a step back.
Not because she’s frightened.
Because she feels it too much.
“Hi,” she says, breath shaky. “I was, um… heading to a meeting.”
“No, you weren’t.”
Her lips part. “I, yes, I was..."
“Ruby,” I say again, and her knees practically buckle.
She hates it.
She loves it.
I move closer, not crowding her, not pinning her, just stepping into her orbit. The air tightens between us instantly.
“You’re avoiding me.”
Her throat works on a swallow. “I’m being professional.”
“That’s not what that is.”
Her eyes flash. “You don’t get to define my professionalism.”
“I’m not trying to,” I say, lowering my voice. “I’m trying to understand why you’re running.”
She looks away. “Because you’re..."
“Intense?” I offer.
She huffs out a breath that might be a laugh. “That’s one word.”
