Lori

The office feels alive in a way that’s almost unsettling at night. It’s quieter, sure, but not still.

The fluorescent lights hum faintly, the shadows stretch longer than they should, and the air feels heavier, charged even.

I sit cross-legged in my chair, a notebook balanced on my knee. My pencil moves without me thinking, lines and shapes forming before I can question why I’m doing this here, of all places.

Across the desk, Marcelina is hunched over her laptop, her screen glowing pale blue against her skin.

She looks calm, focused. Her hair is pulled back tight, and there’s not a single strand out of place.

Of course not. She’s Marcelina—always immaculate.

She glances at me, her brows knitting together. “What are you working on?”

My pencil pauses mid-stroke. “Nothing important.”

“Nothing important doesn’t hold your attention this long.”

She's no wrong.

She leans back in her chair, arms crossed. I smirk because it’s easier than letting her see anything else.

“Just doodling,” I say, hoping she’ll drop it.

“Uh-huh.” She stands, walking around the desk to mine. “Let me see.”

My head jerks up. “Don’t you dare.”

That’s all the encouragement she needs because she darts toward me and I scramble to tuck the notebook against my chest.

But she is faster. In one smooth motion, she leans down, her arm brushing against my shoulder, her chest close enough to crowd my space, and snatch the notebook from my hands.

“Marcel!” I yelp, pushing back in my chair, cheeks flushed. “Are you serious?”

She straighten up, flipping the notebook open, ignoring her flailing hands. “Let’s see what’s so important it’s worth acting like I’m stealing state secrets.”

I groan, burying my face in my hands as I watch her take in the sketch. It’s nothing important, just personal. There's a little girl with wild hair and teary eyes, the sky is a shade darker and it is against the huge window.

“This is amazing,” she says, glancing at me. I'm still hiding my face. “Seriously, why are you hiding this?”

“Because it’s personal,” I snap, snatching the notebook back the second she lowers it. “You ever heard of boundaries?”

She grins, unbothered. “Boundaries are overrated.”

I glare at her, my cheeks still red. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re talented,” she counters, stepping back. “You should show people this.”

I cuss under my breath, clutching the notebook like it’s a lifeline.

“Next time, I’m locking my desk.”

“You love the attention,” she teases, heading back to her seat.

An exasperated groan follows her, and she can’t help but laugh.

“She’s beautiful,” she says when she sits back down. “Who is she?”

I shift in my seat, I didn't expect that.  “Just a sketch.”

Marcelina doesn’t look up. She’s waiting. She always waits until you crack up under her silence.

“She’s me,” I admit, the words coming out before I can stop them. “From when I was a kid.”

Her gaze snaps to mine.

“I didn’t know you drew like this,” she says. Her voice is quiet, but there’s pity there.

“I'm a designer.” I chuckle to lighten up the mood.

She huffs.

I'm silent. But my mouth opens. She won't even care.

“I was raised in an orphanage,” I add, because the words where choking me.

Her lips part slightly, like she’s searching for the right thing to say. But there isn’t a “right thing,” and we both know it.

“It must’ve been hard,” she says eventually, voice gentle.

“It was what it was,” I reply, shrugging again like it doesn’t matter. And maybe it doesn’t. Not anymore, I'm older now and that's my past. All the horrible things that happened back then are all my past.

She gets to her feet and without warning, takes the book from me again. A tiny quick glance, then a smile then another glance at the sketch.

When she is satisfied, she pushes it back into my hands, her fingers lingering on the edge for a second too long.

“You’re a strong woman, Lorian.”

I blink, caught off guard by the sincerity in her voice. “Thanks,” I say, and this time, it’s my voice that’s soft.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of our breathing.

Marcelina's fingers brush against my face, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

The touch is small, fleeting, but it sets something off in me. My heart stutters, and when I look at her, her eyes locked on mine like she’s trying to figure out if this is a mistake.

Before I can say anything, she leans in.

The kiss is light, careful, like she’s holding back just enough to see if I’ll meet her halfway.

Her lips are warm, her breath shaky, and for a second, I let myself fall into it. My hand moves on instinct, gripping the edge of the desk to keep myself grounded.

But then she pulls away, fast, like she’s been burned.

“I—” she stammers, standing so quickly she almost falls over.

“Marcel—” I start, but she’s already grabbing her bag, her eyes darting everywhere except at me.

“I should go,” she says, her voice clipped, and before I can stop her, she’s heading for the door.

“Wait,” I call after her, my voice cracking slightly.

But her hand is on the doorframe. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And then she’s gone.

I sit there, staring at the empty doorway, my heart still racing. My lips tingle, the ghost of her kiss lingering, and I press my fingers to my mouth, trying to make sense of what just happened.

This isn’t like her. Marcelina doesn’t lose control, doesn’t let her guard down. And she definitely doesn’t kiss people in empty offices late at night.

I look down at the sketch still sitting on the desk, the little girl staring back at me with those heavy, knowing eyes.

“Great,” I mutter to myself, dragging a hand through my hair. “Just great.”

I close my notebook, tucking it into my bag, and head for the door.

By the time I reach the elevator, I’m replaying everything in my head. The way her hand lingered, the way her lips trembled, the way she bolted like I was something dangerous.

And maybe I am.

Marcelina doesn’t let people in. She doesn’t give away pieces of herself for free. But tonight, she slipped, just for a second, and I saw something real.

And now she’s running from it.

Running from me.

The elevator doors slide open, and I step inside, leaning against the cool metal wall. My reflection stares back at me, wide-eyed and flushed, and I can’t decide if I want to laugh or scream.

Whatever this is—whatever we are—it’s a thousand more complicated and  I don’t have time to unpack right now.

But as the elevator descends, one thought keeps circling back in my head, louder than all the rest.

I don't want this to end.