Lori

The next day, I walk into the office like I haven’t spent the entire night replaying what happened.

My hair is pulled back tight enough to hurt, and my blazer is buttoned to the neck, stiff and unhealthy. I’m dressed for war—not work.

If anyone looks too closely, they’ll see what I’m trying to hide.

Marcel is already at her desk when I step off the elevator. Of course she is.

She sits perfectly straight, fingers moving swiftly over her keyboard, and her expression is unreadable.

Is she mad? Is she happy? I can't tell.

Her pen taps against her glass desk in a steady rhythm. It's calm, it's collected, like last night didn’t happen.

She doesn’t dare to look up when I walk in.

Good.

I don’t think I could handle it if she did.

“Morning,” I say as I move toward my desk, trying to keep my voice as neutral as I possibly can.

“Morning,” she replies, not even looking my way.

That’s it? One word. No lingering glances, no acknowledgment that I'm here and I kissed her...or she kissed me? But we kissed!

Fine. That’s fine. This is better, isn’t it? Pretending nothing happened? Pretending I didn’t almost throw away every shred of professionalism for the sake of one impulsive and dangerous moment?

But as the morning drags on, the silence between us feels unbearable.

Every accidental brush of her sleeve against mine, every time her gaze shifts toward me and then darts away—it all feels packed, like a rubber band stretched too much and only waiting to burst off.

I can’t get myself to stop watching her.

The way she tucks her hair behind her ear, the slight furrow of her brow every time before she types something on her keyboard.

It's almost as if my eyes are choosing to betray my mind by staying glued on her.

“You planning to actually work today?” she asks like she has eyes on her forehead. I notice how sharp her voice sounds but at the same time not as cold as I expected.

I blink and throw my eyes back to my screen, only to realize I’ve been staring at the same paragraph for who knows how long.

“Rude,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “It’s called brainstorming.”

Her lips twitch, and I can tell she is fighting a smile. She does not look up though.

“Sure. Let me know how that works out for you.”

I huff.

The banter helps but only for a little while. When she gets up to grab her marker on my desk, her sleeve brushes over my skin and that tiny, tiny contact just throws me right back into that headspace.

Fuck.

By lunchtime, I can’t take it anymore.

“I’m heading out,” I say, grabbing my bag.

“Get me something,” she mutters, her eyes on the screen.

I pinch the bridge of my nose because that alone will give me a headache. Does that mean we are cool again?

“What do you want?”

“Surprise me.”

I don’t know if she means it the way it sounds, but it sits in my head along with other headache provoking stuff.

I leave without a word.

The café across the street is my hideout for a few minutes and I let myself breathe.

I order two sandwiches and a coffee for her because I've noticed how much she likes the macchiato.

But don't freak out, that's the only thing that I know about her for certain.

It strikes me how little I know about her preferences. For someone who occupies this much space in my head, she’s still a huge riddle.

When I get back, she’s on the phone, her voice is soft and low.

I set the food and coffee on her desk without a word.

“Thanks,” she says, placing a hand to cover the mouthpiece.

I just nod because my heart's beating so fast I can't form words anymore.

The rest of the day drags. We’re professional, but every glance suggests otherwise.

We need to talk about it, that much is clear but she is Marcel. She doesn't do talking, she does cold gazes and ignoring.

By the time the clock hits six, I’m more than ready to leave.

“You staying late?” I ask, making sure my voice is as casual as ever.

“Are you?” she counters, finally looking up.

I meet her eyes and I hate to say that I missed that gaze.

Does she want me to stay? Should I stay?

My head starts spiraling again until she cocks an eyebrow to push out an answer out of me.

“Not tonight,” I manage, hooking my bag over my shoulder.

She nods. “Goodnight, then.”

“Yeah. Night.”

I walk out without looking back, but I can feel her watching me all the way to the door.

The elevator doors close, and I finally exhale, leaning against the wall.

This shouldn’t be hard.

×××

The next morning, I’m determined to shake off the friction. I get in earlier than usual, hoping to get myself together before the chaos starts.

But when I step off the elevator, she’s already there.

Of-fucking- course she beat me to it.

She's wearing a peach dress that hugs her broad hips perfectly, her hair sleek, her makeup subtle. She doesn’t look like someone who spent the night rethinking everything.

That's how I know I'm the only one here worrying about the kiss.

“Morning,” I say, irritation seeping into my voice.

She glances up, expression indifferent. “Morning.”

I pour myself into work, hoping to lose myself but no matter how hard I try, my thoughts keep going back to her.

“You’re awfully quiet today,” she says after a while, her tone is downright teasing. “Not that I miss the happy side.”

I look up, searching for a comeback. “Just focused.”

But I end up ignoring her sassy comment.

“Good,” she says, her attention is already back on her screen. “We’ve got a lot of work.”

I sigh but she does not even pay attention.

The hours go by painfully slow and the elephant in the room is not going anywhere.

I can’t keep doing this.

×××