It was the touch that woke me.
Light — so light I almost thought I'd dreamed it.
A brush of skin against my fingers, warm and brief, like someone tracing the outline of a thought before it disappears.
I didn't move.
For a moment I wasn't sure where I was — only that it was quiet, too quiet, and the air smelled faintly of coffee, paper, and rain. Then the hum of the lights came back, and the ache in my wrist reminded me I'd fallen asleep at my desk again.
But I didn't open my eyes.
Because whoever stood near me — whoever that warmth belonged to — hadn't moved either.
I could feel it. The stillness that meant someone was there, close enough for my half-dreaming mind to measure the distance between heartbeats.
The room held its breath.
Then came the soft rustle of fabric, a sigh, and something heavier — a jacket, smooth and cool at first — settled across my shoulders.
His scent clung to it: cedar, clean soap, the faint trace of ink. It wrapped around me like a memory I didn't realize I'd been keeping.
And then a voice — low, quiet, almost part of the air itself.
"Go home," he whispered. "Before this place takes too much from you."
My heart stilled.
I wanted to open my eyes, to look at him, to ask what he meant — but something in the tone held me there, still and suspended. It wasn't an order. It wasn't pity. It sounded like regret.
By the time I found the courage to move, the warmth beside me was gone.
Only the soft echo of footsteps fading toward the elevator remained.
I lay there for a long time after that, pretending sleep, afraid that if I opened my eyes, even the scent would vanish.
The next morning the sun cut through the blinds in thin, accusing stripes.
My neck ached, my handwriting had slanted halfway off the page, and his jacket — his jacket — was still draped over my shoulders.
For a while I just stared at it.
It wasn't the expensive kind, not really. Dark charcoal wool, understated stitching, the faintest tear at the inner lining where the tag had started to come loose. But somehow it carried the kind of weight that made you sit a little straighter.
I folded it carefully, smoothing the wrinkles that my sleep had left, and placed it over my chair like it belonged to the air and not to me.
It didn't matter that no one was there to see. I still felt guilty. Like I'd taken something I wasn't supposed to touch.
When the others arrived — the usual shuffle of chatter and morning coffee — I pretended to be buried in emails. My hands kept finding the edge of the jacket anyway, fingertips brushing the fabric as though it might disappear if I looked away too long.
He came in an hour later.
Composed as always, tie perfect, expression unreadable.
If he noticed the jacket missing, he didn't show it.
"Morning," he said as he passed, the briefest glance in my direction.
I swallowed a response that came out sounding too small and muttered, "Morning, sir."
And that was it.
No hesitation, no flicker of recognition, no acknowledgment that he'd been the one to leave the quiet warmth behind.
But part of me knew.
Because I'd felt it — that whisper against my skin, that steadying pause before the jacket fell across me.
No one else in that office carried silence the way he did.
I told myself I was imagining it.
That maybe someone else had passed by, maybe a janitor had been kind, maybe my exhausted brain had stitched the moment together out of gratitude and half-dreams.
But when I slipped my hand into the pocket — not to snoop, just to fold it neatly — my fingers brushed something small, soft, and unexpected.
A pen.
Sleek black metal, the company logo faintly scratched off near the clip.
And engraved near the bottom, barely visible unless the light hit just right: A.B.
Adrian Blake.
I froze, the air catching somewhere between my chest and throat.
There it was. Proof.
And yet, somehow, it made things even harder to believe.
He'd left it behind — or maybe on purpose. I didn't know which possibility unsettled me more.
The day moved like molasses.
Meetings, emails, lunch I barely touched. My mind kept circling back to the weight of the jacket folded neatly in my drawer, to the way his voice had sounded in that sliver of the night — quiet, almost afraid.
I replayed it in my head until the words blurred.
"Before this place takes too much from you."
Too much of what? Time? Hope?
Or something deeper — the part of yourself that dreams, the part that still believes in softness?
Maybe he'd meant nothing by it. Maybe it was just advice from a man who'd been here too long, who'd seen too many bright interns fade into routine.
But the way he'd said it… it lingered like a warning wrapped in care.
When the day finally ended, I waited until most people had gone before approaching his office. My palms were clammy, heart thudding far too loudly for something as simple as returning a jacket.
The door was half-open.
He was at his desk, sleeves rolled up, pen between his fingers as he read through a stack of papers. He didn't look up when I knocked gently on the frame.
"Come in."
I stepped inside, holding the jacket carefully, like something fragile.
"You left this," I said.
He glanced up, and for a fraction of a second — maybe less — his eyes softened. But the expression vanished before I could name it.
"Thank you," he said evenly, setting the pen aside. "I didn't realize."
I wanted to say I think you did.
But the words stuck somewhere in my throat.
Instead, I placed the jacket on the corner of his desk.
"It kept me warm," I said quietly, surprising myself with the honesty of it.
Something flickered behind his gaze. Not amusement. Not discomfort.
Something quieter — like the moment before a storm shifts direction.
"I'm glad," he said finally. His voice had dropped half a note. "You were working too late."
I managed a small smile. "So were you."
He looked like he might reply, then didn't.
The silence stretched — not awkward, just… full.
Then, softly, he said, "You should go home earlier, Amara. Rest matters too."
My name in his mouth sounded different — gentler, heavier somehow.
I nodded, unsure what else to do.
"I'll try," I said.
When I turned to leave, he spoke again, almost an afterthought.
"Thank you. For the return."
I paused, hand on the door. "You're welcome."
I didn't look back. I didn't need to.
Because even without seeing, I knew he was watching me go — the way you watch something you can't quite hold.
That night, the rain came harder.
I sat by my window with a cup of tea gone cold, watching the city smear itself into silver and shadow. The streets glistened, headlights breaking into ribbons of light, people hurrying beneath umbrellas that all looked the same.
Somewhere out there, he was probably still at the office — doing what he always did, burying himself in order and control.
And I wondered if he ever felt it too — the quiet noise between us.
The unspoken rhythm that lived in every glance, every almost-smile, every word that lingered a moment too long.
Because I did.
I felt it in the space between our voices, in the weight of his jacket folded in my memory, in the way the pen with his initials still sat on my desk, its edges warm from my hands.
I should've returned it too.
But I didn't.
Not yet.
I don't know why I kept it.
Maybe to prove the night had really happened.
Maybe because it felt like a secret I wasn't ready to give back.
Or maybe — and this was the part I couldn't admit, even to myself — it was because some part of me wanted him to notice. To ask. To break the silence we both kept pretending not to hear.
I traced the letters with my thumb — A.B. — until they blurred.
Then I set the pen down, turned off the light, and let the rain keep talking for both of us.