Morning Light.

The first thing I noticed was how quiet the house was.

It lays across the apartment just like a sheet that no one has dared to move. I can hear the vibrating sound of the refrigerator making it presence known, the low traffic outside symbolizing tiredness and lost of eagerness, but nothing human. For a while I sat down trying to tell myself different things, I wonder if I last night was just in my imagination or it actually happened, the way he looked at me, the sound of his voice when he said goodnight.

Light seeps through the curtains, soft and pale. I lie there and let it paint the ceiling. I should get up, shower, start the day. Instead I listen. Sometimes I can tell where he is by the sound alone the clink of glass from the kitchen, the sound of paper being flipped from his office, the click of the elevator doors when he leaves. Now there is only rigidity.

I do not know what I was expecting to feel this morning. Not peace exactly, but not the careful unease that sits in my chest either, it feels so uncomfortable. Last night felt… suspended. For a moment it seemed like we had remembered how to speak without turning every word into a transaction. I should be relieved by that. Instead I am waiting for the weight to return and me going back to being picky about it.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. The floor is cool beneath my feet. I pull on a sweater, twist my hair into a knot, and step into the hallway. The air smells faintly of coffee—his brand, dark and bitter.

The sound of his voice reaches me before I see him. It is low, controlled, the tone he uses when he is speaking to someone who matters. I pause near the door of his office. It is half-open.

“…yes, keep it under review,” he is saying. “We agreed it would be temporary. There is no reason to make it permanent.”

A pause. I hear a faint murmur from the other side of the line, then his voice again, sharper. “No, she understands the terms. That was the point from the beginning.”

My fingers tighten around the edge of the wall.

He is talking about me. He must be.

Another silence, then: “It has to look clean when it ends. No surprises.”

I step back before he can hear the small sound my breath makes. The words echo in my head, too neat, too practiced. It feels like the floor has shifted a little under my feet.

When this section ends, I’ll move on to the next one so the whole chapter builds naturally.

I walk to the kitchen as quietly as I can and stand by the counter, pretending to look for a mug. The sound of his voice carries down the hall again, but the words blur into the hum of the appliances. I hear the soft click that means the call has ended, then the steady rhythm of his footsteps.

I pour coffee into a cup that is too large, watch it fill almost to the rim. When he enters the room, I do not turn around.

“Good morning,” he says.

His tone is even, polite. Nothing in it hints at the conversation I just overheard.

“Morning,” I answer. The word comes out cooler than I intend.

He moves past me to pour his own coffee. For a moment we stand side by side, both pretending to focus on the small, ordinary task between us.

“You have work today?” he asks.

“Yes. A client meeting at eleven.”

He nods. “Do you need the driver?”

“No, thank you. I will take a cab.”

He glances at me then, as if trying to read something in my face. “Are you sure? It is no trouble.”

“I am sure.”

A small pause. Then he sets his cup down and leans against the counter. “You seem tired.”

“I am fine.”

It is not true. There is a strange tightness behind my ribs. I do not want to think about what I heard or what it means, so I focus on the sound of the coffee dripping, the smell of toast beginning to burn.

He reaches to rescue it from the toaster before I can. “You always forget the second slice,” he says quietly, almost amused.

I force a small smile. “Maybe I like it that way.”

The edges of the toast are nearly black. He places it on a plate and slides it toward me. “Then you are consistent.”

The line might have been a joke, once. Today it feels heavier than that.

I sit at the table, pick at the corner of the toast. He watches me for a moment longer, then turns back to the counter.

There is so much unsaid between us that the silence hums.

When I reach my studio later, the morning light through the tall windows feels too sharp. I set down my bag and open my laptop, but the sketches on the screen blur together. The call keeps replaying in my head: We agreed it would be temporary. She understands the terms.

Temporary.

Terms.

Clean when it ends.

I tell myself he could have been talking about anything—a project, a client contract—but my mind refuses to accept the comfort.

“Lia?”

I look up. Maya stands in the doorway, a coffee in each hand. She has worked with me for years and can read my moods too easily.

“You look like you have seen a ghost,” she says, handing me a cup.

“Just tired.”

“Too tired for good news? The Whitmore proposal came through.”

I blink, trying to focus. “They approved it?”

She nods, grinning. “Full budget. They loved the presentation.”

“That is… that is good.”

“You do not sound thrilled.”

“I am. Really. I just need a minute.”

She studies me, but decides not to press. “Alright. I am in the workshop if you need me for anything.”

When she leaves, I let out a long breath and stare at the sketches all over again. My hands ache to work, to draw something that makes sense, but my mind will not keep shut and give me the room to be productive.

By the time I get home that evening, the sun is setting behind the towers. The apartment has a faint smell that seems like cedar and rain. Adriansitted is in the living room, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, reading something on his tablet.

He looks up when I enter. “You are late.”

“The meeting ran long.”

“Did it go well?”

“It did.”

“That is good.”

He says it softly, looking at me and glancing back, the same way he did the night before. The memory of that moment only makes the distance feel wider now.

I place my bag on the table and start to walk past him, but he closes the tablet. “Lia.”

I stop.

He hesitates, searching for words. “If my words this morning was something to upset you this morning…”

“You did not,” I cut him off, too quickly.

“Then something did.”

“I said, I am fine.” I said sharply

He studies me with his gaze running over me repeatedly, eyes steady, but I cannot hold his gaze. I turn toward the hallway and walked away slowly.

“Goodnight, Adrian.”

“Goodnight.”

In my room, I sit calmly on the edge of the bed, listening to the soft murmur of the city through the window. The call still keeps ringing in my mind, stubborn and precise. I know I should ask him, question him on what it meant, but pride holds me back from asking.

Be Cautious. That is what I have promised myself to be. Not foolish. Not hopeful.

But somewhere under the noise of doubt, another feeling lingers a quiet wish that what I heard was not what it seemed.