That was it. The bare minimum. The next hour, I spent dissecting every syllable, searching for secret messages. Did he want me? Was he setting me up to fail? Was this some subtle sabotage? Or was he just being… professional after he messed up?
When the meeting ended, he lingered to answer someone’s question. I shot out the door, pacing the length of the corridor like a marathoner, then doubled back to retrieve a pen I’d left behind. Through the glass, I caught him leaning in to speak to a designer; too close, too intimate, but then the designer laughed and it broke the spell. He saw me in the reflection. Our eyes met for a second. He looked away first.
An unwelcome and unexpected emotion welled up in me; jealousy. I wanted him to reserve that body language for me. Leaning in close, the intimacy, the low voice he used when he moved into someone’s space. The thought of him with this woman had me seething… and I had no idea why.
He wasn’t mine. I sure as heck wasn’t his.
So why did I care?
By four, my productivity was a joke. I started three emails and finished none. I found myself typing “GABRIEL” in all caps in the search bar, as if the act would summon a clue. I deleted it so fast I almost broke a nail.
I caught my own reflection in my monitor and winced. The woman looking back at me was sharp, alert, but there were cracks around the edges. I brushed at a loose strand of hair and tried to remember the last time I’d truly relaxed.
He passed by my desk. I was the only one left in the bullpen. His steps slowed just a tiny bit, like he might say something. I prepared for the worst; an accusation, an apology, a smirk.
Instead, he stopped at the printer, retrieved a single sheet of paper, and kept walking. No words. Not even a glance. I watched him until he disappeared into his office, the glass swallowing him whole.
I shut down my computer, collected my bag, and walked to the elevator with the calm of a person who has lost the ability to care. But as the doors closed, I caught one last look at him through the partition. He was standing in the dark, phone to his ear, looking right at me.
I pretended not to see.
But when the elevator doors opened, my heart was still pounding. My hands still shook. My body refused to let me forget the feeling of his lips on mine, the way his hands dug into my hips in my dream, the look in his eyes.
I told myself it would be better tomorrow.
But I had no faith it actually would be better.
*
The next day, I calculated a risk and went for coffee at the far end of the floor, the fancy espresso machine everyone fought over. I’d rehearsed my speech in case I ran into Gabriel: impersonal, clipped, nothing for him to weaponize. Instead, I almost collided with my brother.
He was in business drag; khakis, blue shirt, hair mussed in a way that said I was up late but I still care. He looked up from his phone, registered me, and did his usual double take. “Liz! You look tired.”
“Fuck you,” I said under my breath.
He let out a laugh and pulled me in for a one-armed hug. “You want one? I think I finally cracked the foamer setting.”
“Sure.” I hovered, watched him fumble with the unfamiliar interface. He looked wired. I felt a pang of something I refused to label. A few moments later, he offered me a cup.
“Told you I’d get it right.”
I took a sip of the scalding drink. “Impressive. Maybe you missed your calling as a barista.”
He grinned, but his attention flicked over my shoulder. I turned and saw Gabriel leaning against the far wall, arms folded, watching us with that impossible neutrality.
“Gabriel was telling me some wild stories about your first hackathon together,” my brother said, voice lowering. “I had no idea you did all-nighters back then.”
I flashed hot, then cold. “It’s called a deadline. Some of us respect them.”
My brother snorted, unbothered. “He said you coded circles around everyone, including him.”
Gabriel’s mouth ticked, but he said nothing.
The way my brother said “including him,” the lazy confidence of it, the unspoken we’ve talked about you, my skin prickled. It was the easiest thing in the world to imagine them as a team, exchanging stories I hadn’t approved, framing the narrative. Their shared glance was brief, but it was enough.
I drained my cup. “I have to prep for a vendor call. If you’re done with the machine, maybe let others have a turn?”
My brother laughed, but Gabriel only nodded, eyes never leaving mine. “Of course,” he said. “We wouldn’t want to keep anyone waiting.”