I'M LATE.

Which isn't anything terribly new, honestly, but in this case it is just terrible. Because I'm late for something actually important, which is essentially the rest of my life, and as someone who rather enjoys partaking in the general human experience, being late is crushing any and every hope for the rest of my life not being homeless, starving, and cold in an alleyway. And that's not good.

I'm wearing my smartest blazer, hair pulled back in a way that says I'm not doing this because I forgot to take a shower but because of efficiency, and a pair of plain black flats I'd stolen from Nat's closet.

I even shoved a muffin in my face as some excuse of breakfast before I'd dashed out the door.

I've determined that the people who eat breakfast are the people who have any semblance of their life together, and damn it, I'm going to be one of them, even if for show.

Except now, I probably won't, because I am very, very late.

I'm haphazardly weaving through the crowds of people ambling down the sidewalk, my steps are a beat too quick and slightly off kilter. The leather folder clutched in my sweaty palm has my poor excuse of a resume pressed neatly inside, and I keep running my tongue over my teeth, unable to escape the nagging thought that there's a lipstick smudge, even after the thirtieth time.

My eyes dart down to my phone again, and as another minute ticks by I feel another morsel of my soul die.

Although, really, it's just less for Nat to kill when she finds out I completely bombed the interview she set up by being dreadfully, appallingly late and she slashes me into itty bitty pieces with a machete.

As the sign Viva La Breakfast comes into view, my heartbeat picks up pace to follow suit with my legs, and then I'm bursting through the doors with a small gasp and a river of I'm sorry's.

Then, as if no time has passed at all, I'm shaking this tall man's hand, mouth stretched in what I hope is a bright, employable smile, and thanking him for his time, really, so much, looking forward to hearing from him, honestly, truly, thank you so much for the opportunity.

As I push open the door from the back office, with a white-knuckled grip still on my resume, I can barely remember what happened. My weak sense of logic reassures me I clearly had some sort of interaction, since it's hour an hour later, but all I can focus on is how dry my mouth feels.

Just as I'm heading out and seriously considering throwing myself into traffic, a familiar head of dark hair catches my eye, and I pause.

Tucked in the corner booth is Noel. His thick frames are settled on the bridge of his nose, a coffee hovering underneath his lips and an honest to god newspaper spread out in front of him. I can see his eyes scanning down the page, and it's the first time I've seen him since he'd been dragging my bottom lip into his mouth.

There's a split-second where I see myself stepping out onto the street, climbing onto a bus and going home to bury myself within the sanctuary under my covers, but then my feet pivot.

I drop in the seat opposite to Noel, grinning brightly at him as my leather folder smacks hard against the wooden tabletop.

"Fancy meeting you here."

His head shoots up, eyes wide and swimming with bewilderment. There's a beat where his eyebrows furrow as if he's trying to decipher if I'm a sleep-deprived figment of his imagination or not. I grin brighter.

"Are you stalking me?"

I snort, curving my fingers around his porcelain cup and pulling it towards me. "No," I say, before finishing his coffee in one swift gulp. "And that isn't a very nice thing to ask someone who went through the worst interview in the existence of the entire universe. I'm sensitive right now. Also, was that decaf?"

"Interview?" His mouth twitches. "And no, but it was mine."

I roll my eyes. "I checked their menu last night- with the prices they think are reasonable, I hope you get free refills. And I would make a joke that if I wanted to work here I'd better improve my happy endings, judging by how much an eggs benedict costs, but that would require me to actually get the job and that's pretty unlikely at this point."

"Did it go that bad?" he asks, tilting his head.

A bitter laugh escapes my lips. "Bad? More like catastrophic. I was ten minutes late and I barely remember what I even said. There's a real possibility that I just sat there and drooled. Maybe I went into excruciating detail of my childhood trauma with rabbits. Who knows?"

"Rabbits?"

I half-heartedly wave my hand. "It's a long story. Essentially they're demon creatures and Watership Down is not a children's movie."

He pauses, but doesn't press it any further. A frown weighs down his mouth when he reaches for his coffee cup, only to remember that it's empty. I choke back a laugh.

"Anyway," he says, shooting me a sharp look. "Why were you late?"

At the quick reminder of my terrible fate, I sigh, shoulders slumping. "Writing. It doesn't really make sense to other people, but sometimes I get in these weird writing frenzies. They're almost out of my control."

Out of habit, I pause to check if he's still listening, expecting that glazed film over his eyes that's inevitable whenever writing speak leaves my mouth. Instead, his elbows are propped on the table, chin resting on his entwined fingers, and he nods for me to continue. Involuntarily, something inside of me warms.

"The only problem with these weird grooves is that they usually happen at night," I continue, "And I have the shitty habit of ignoring multiple alarm clocks if I don't get enough sleep." I heave another sigh, sleep still heavy on my lashes. "My body is actively working against me. It sucks."

What I purposely omit is the fact that the writing hysteria that I'd surrendered to was definitely inspired by the unrelieved tension buzzing under my skin from the ghost of his fingertips singeing into my hips.

It didn't help that his unusual lack of presence had only further ignited this fire, and rather than actually confronting any of the total fuckery I had brought onto myself, fictional characters I had ultimate control over served as the greatest of distractions.

There's still a hint of unease lingering in the back of my throat, though, reflected in the way I can see his shoulders tighten.

"Christian is a charitable guy. I'm sure you'll be fine." Something like a smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

A silence settles in the air, just a touch enough uncomfortable that I shift in my seat. His eyes are fixed on the newspaper again. I draw a deep breath.

"What are you doing right now? Let's go somewhere. If I'm not distracted than I'm going to freak myself out over nothing with this interview. And that's going to be awful," I say, ignoring the tinge of nerves that are collecting in the pit of my stomach and covering it up with a smile.

His mouth presses into a thin line, a pained look crossing his face. "Vika, I don't-"

"Oh, come on," I groan. "Don't be like that, don't be weird. I get it, but come on. We kissed. It's whatever. The world isn't ending."

He swallows, and there's some sort of emotion conflicted in his dark eyes. "I know, but we... we shouldn't have done it."

My brow quirks. "But we did."

"But we shouldn't have."

"But Noel, we so did."

"Aren't you worried about the consequences?" he asks, a crease etched in his forehead.

I shrug. "What? We actually get along for Nat and Mark's wedding? The horror."

He seems to consider what I say, but the apprehension is still fresh on his face. It doesn't really make sense that he's the same man who had me gasping for breath underneath him.

His lips part as if he's about to say something, but I cut him off.

"Alright Noel, yes, we shouldn't have done it, but bottom line here. Do you regret it?"

There's a long pause. I ignore the twisting in my stomach.

He sighs. "No."

My shoulders instantly relax, and I can feel the tension unraveling from inside of me as I meet his gaze, the edge of his mouth barely curling up.

"Then it's fine. Let's move on. You can distract me from the catastrophe that is currently my life. Maybe if you come, you might actually have what us poor people call fun. You do know what that is, right?"

He throws me a dry look. "I am aware of what fun is."

"Great!" I beam, clapping my hands. "Let's go! If we don't leave in the next thirty seconds, I might spontaneously combust, so let's get a move on."

Noel sighs, eyes shifting to the gold watch clutched to his wrist. "I actually have a meeting soon, I only came for a quick breakfast..."

I groan, melodramatically throwing up my arms. "Oh, come on, what time's your meeting, Mr. Important Business Man?"

"Eleven."

My face drops. "Are you serious? That's like three hours away. No, nope, I refuse to hear anymore lame excuses. We're getting out of here. Up, up, up," I usher him, waving my hands as I slide out of the seat, grabbing my leather folder.

There's a moment of conflict, eyes dragging from me to the newspaper. Then a defeated sigh spills from his lips as he's throwing a few bills on the table and peeling himself off of the leather seat. A grin stretches across my face.

"I really can't be late for this meeting," he murmurs, but still obediently follows me out of the restaurant.

I roll my eyes. "I'm sure the Queen of England can wait."

"You do know that I work in the hotel business, right?" he asks, falling into step with me on the sidewalk.

"I actually do not care. No job talk. We're supposed to be distracting here. All job talk is officially off the table. Now this might be tough, but do you actually do anything other than work? These are what we call 'interests' or 'hobbies'."

He shoots me a deadpan stare. "People with money have interests and hobbies."

"Oh, no, here I was trying to bridge the alien-human dichotomy," I say, a shit-eating grin finding my face. Noel is even more unimpressed.

The few stray rays of sunshine peaking through the clouds warm my skin, and the slightest breeze tousles the ends of Noel's dark hair. The twisting and turning in my stomach that had accompanied all thoughts of Noel has finally disentangled, and there's a bizarre touch of relaxation to my shoulders while walking beside him. Faint memories of the area are directing me towards the quaint little park that's only a couple of blocks ahead, with Noel apparently trusting me to guide the way.

When I peek over, he's got his hands stuffed into the pockets of his pants, eyes set forward. I smile.

"You know you're safe to come back to the apartment, right? I'm not gonna jump you if I get you in an enclosed space. Although, I'm surprised you lasted as long as you did without Cleo in your life. I think she misses you," I tell him, playfully bumping my shoulder into his. "She even almost let me touch her the other day."

"Cleopatra," he says without missing a beat. "And I wasn't... avoiding you."

I hum. "What do you call actively keeping away from someone for long periods of time?"

"I was busy," he insists, pointedly avoiding my stare. "My job is quite demanding."

I scoff, a smirk digging into my cheek. "Right, sure. Too busy for me? I'd believe. Too busy for Cleo? Yeah, right. You have an unhealthy attachment to that cat. And I say that in a it's kind of adorable way."

There's a moment of quiet, and I turn to see him aggressively staring at the ground, a hint of pink dusting the tips of his ears. I ignore the impulse to press him further, colour the blush darker.

Nat murdering me seems inevitable. Now it's a toss up of quick and painless, or tortuously slow, and I'd like to keep the former as an option.

"Where are we going?" he mumbles, still averting his gaze.

"The park," I announce, gesturing broadly as we come up the winding gravel path, bordered by wide, expansive maple trees and bright bursts of dandelions. "Beautiful, relaxing, and most importantly free."

Noel pauses, hovering on the sidewalk with a wary crease in his brow. His lips press in a thin, thoughtful line. I frown at his hesitation.

"You alright there, man?" I ask, curious as I lean close to him, hands linked behind my back.

He blinks, and then shakes his head, taking off without me. "I'm fine. Hurry up, I don't have all day."

Despite his abrasive tone, I'm less than deterred as I follow after him. His strides are long, essentially doubling mine, and his chin is lifted with the sort of posture none of my teachers could ever nag into me. Still, I let my eyes drag appreciatively down the expanse of his back to just under his spine, a smirk carving onto my face.

He throws a look over his shoulder. "You coming?"

I nod, throwing him a broad grin and a salute. "Sir, yes, sir!"

It only takes a few quick strides to catch up to him, and then we're both falling in step once again, the gravel crunching underneath our shoes. His dark eyes are roaming from the infinite blue sky to the budding green leaves, never lingering for too long on any one thing. Despite the faint chirps of sparrows, his brows are still furrowed.

"Are you scanning for any hobos? Scared one might touch you or something? Because this is actually a nice park, okay. I didn't take you to some sketchy underpass or anything," I reassure him, leaning my head forward to gauge his troubled face.

He catches my gaze, dry as usual, and his mouth twitches. "I know. I've been here before."

"What? Really?" I instantly perk up, brows jumping up my forehead in shock. "No way."

His shoulders drop, but his hands remain snug in his pockets, gaze trailing over past the trees to one of the tall, looming buildings a few streets away. "There's a Carlton hotel, if you haven't noticed."

"Huh, cool. So when you're too stressed out do you get some poor assistant to walk around here and report back to you how it was?"

"No," he says, deadpan. "I used to come here with my dad, is all. When I was a child."

I don't miss the way he swallows, Adam's apple dipping precariously in his throat. There's a softness to his voice that I've never heard from him before and for some reason it's still echoing in my mind, like I can't let it go just yet.

I grin. "Are we unlocking Noel Carlton backstory right now?"

"No, you are not."

"Have I finally broken you down?" I continue, ignoring him. "Is this like level five or something? Have I actually done it?" I press a shocked hand against my chest.

He only rolls his eyes in response.

Still, I can't ignore the warmth that's building at the bottom of my spine as I steal another glance at his face, studying the careful way the resident notch in his brows has softened.

"What?" he snaps, after a moment of silence that I hadn't quite acknowledged yet. "I was a child once, yes, I know. It's impossible for you to imagine. I'm a robot. I get it."

My gaze of wonder breaks with a laugh, and I shake my head. "No!" I protest, but the look he fixes me with is doubtful. "Seriously! I was thinking of how cute you would be. But also, now I'm thinking of a kid that hates everything as much as you do, and actually, it's hilarious."

He bristles. "I don't hate everything."

"Yes, yes, my bad. Everything but your cat. My mistake."

He opens his mouth to make a rebuttal, but he's interrupted by a shrill ringing from his pocket, and he pauses. I stop too, a little disappointed that his argument dies on his tongue as he brings the phone to his ear, turning his back towards me. Something inside of me twists as he murmurs words I can't quite make sense of.

When he hangs up and turns back towards me, mouth open and ready to pour out some excuse, a rueful smile tugs on my lips. "Go Mr. Important Business Man, I'll be fine."

He ducks his head slightly, clearing his throat. "Yeah, sorry," he says, voice a little rougher than usual. "Work."

There's a moment where we're both unsure of what to do with our bodies, the air saturated with an uncomfortable tinge that has both of us go to make some sort of movement but then think better immediately after. Our eyes meet.

"I'll see you later," I promise him, giving him a small wave and clutching my leather folder to my chest.

He nods, fixing his glasses, and then turns on his heel without another word. I watch with bated breath as he disappears down the gravel path and out of my sight, leaving me alone underneath the maple trees.

This cannot be a healthy development, and I do not have enough money for a therapist that doesn't feed me drinks or sleep on a cardboard box.