Lena didn't return to her desk right away.
Instead, she walked the halls like a shadow—silent, unseen, her coffee long since emptied but still clutched in one hand. She passed the break room. The elevator. Conference rooms filled with people talking too loudly and saying too little.
No one noticed her.
Except him.
That thought lingered longer than it should have. Like perfume clinging to skin.
You don't pretend. That's why I noticed you.
Noticed.
The word kept turning over in her head. It didn't slide off like a compliment. It didn't dissolve like small talk. It stayed.
And that was dangerous.
Because people weren't supposed to see her.
Not the real her.
Especially not someone like Eliot Chase.
That night, she walked home instead of taking the train.
She needed air. Movement. Space to think. The city glowed dull beneath cloud-thick skies, rain glossing every sidewalk and car hood in reflective static. She kept her hood up, head down. The kind of posture that kept strangers away.
It wasn't until she reached her apartment complex that she realized—
She'd been touching her left wrist the entire walk home.
The place where his fingers had brushed hers.
It was stupid. Juvenile. Beneath her.
And yet—
She hadn't felt like this in years.
That quiet itch in her chest. That low, restless hum that wasn't quite fear and wasn't quite desire, but something heavier.
Not just attraction.
Hunger.
Not the kind she fed under a moonlit sky.
Worse.
The kind that lingered after.
Her apartment greeted her in silence. No windows. No framed art. Just her and the hum of the fridge. Pipes settling in the walls. Shadows she didn't mind living with.
She didn't turn the lights on. She never did.
In the kitchen, she poured herself a finger of something black and bitter from the bottle hidden behind her spice rack. Not human liquor—but it dulled the edge.
Just enough.
She sat at the edge of the couch. Still, focused, staring at the wall opposite her.
And slowly—unwillingly—her gaze slid to the desk.
The photo wasn't on the corkboard anymore. She'd moved it after the last storm in her head.
But it was still here.
Tucked in the back of a drawer, folded inside a journal no one was ever meant to see.
She stood. Crossed the room like she was pulled.
Opened the drawer.
Unfolded the image.
Eliot.
Caught outside a bookstore. A cardigan pulled tight. Arms full of brown paper packages. Mid-smile, mid-sentence, talking to someone just out of frame.
Unposed. Unaware.
Entirely human.
She shouldn't have taken it.
She knew that.
But she'd kept it anyway.
Because even then—before the late-night server rooms and awkward coffees—he'd felt safe.
Safe enough to watch.
Safe enough to imagine.
And that was the part that twisted.
Because she didn't just want to touch. Or taste.
She wanted to trust.
And she knew better.
There was no safe way for someone like her to be seen.
She didn't sleep that night.
She rarely did.
By dawn she was already dressed—sharp black layers, her sleeves rolled halfway, collar buttoned high. Her tea steamed in a cracked mug, steeped with leaves no market carried and bark from a tree that didn't grow on maps.
Her reflection in the mirror was hard-edged. Cold.
Good.
That's how it had to be.
Work started at eight.
At 8:03, Eliot walked in—tired eyes, rumpled sleeves.
He didn't see her at first.
But when he did, his eyes lit. Not wide. Not performative.
Just… warm.
Real.
And that alone made her stomach twist.
She turned away before he could wave. Slipped down the IT corridor with an excuse about latency checks and absolutely no intention of following through.
She needed space.
Not from him.
From herself.
It was near five when he found her again—this time in the server room.
He tapped once on the glass.
She opened the door.
"Hey," he said, holding out a small container. "Leftovers. You said you hate delivery… this is real food. Homemade."
She stared at it. Then at him.
Eliot shifted, rubbing the back of his neck. "My sister visited last night. She made too much."
"And you thought of me."
He shrugged. "You fixed my laptop. And you drink vending coffee. I figured I owed you something that didn't come with a foil lid."
Lena took the container, their fingers brushing.
Again.
His smile flickered. Unsteady. Real.
"I'll get out of your hair," he mumbled, already backing toward the door.
And before she could stop herself:
"Wait."
He paused.
Her voice was soft. Uncertain. "I'm free tonight."
He blinked. "Oh. You want to…?"
She nodded. "Dinner. Or whatever."
His mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again.
"Yeah," he said. "Yes. Sure."
"I'll message you."
He nodded again—eyes wide, like someone who hadn't expected a yes—and turned to go.
The door clicked shut.
Lena stood there, container in hand, the scent of him still hanging in the air.
She looked down at the lid.
There was a note scrawled in marker:
Don't forget to eat, weirdo.
Lena's mouth twitched.
Sister.
She made a mental note to ask about her.
And maybe—if the night stayed calm, if nothing inside her pulled too hard—
She'd ask Eliot something, too.
Like why he made her feel like the moon was rising.When she was standing perfectly still.