(Alex POV)
I don't plan on staying long.
The thought forms as I step inside the restaurant, automatic and reassuring, like a habit I've leaned on for years. The warmth hits first subtle, deliberate, nothing overstated. Low conversation hums beneath soft music. Cutlery clinks. Laughter, muted. It's the kind of place people choose carefully.
Somewhere you go when you expect to be listened to.
Vivienne is speaking beside me, something about a client dinner later in the week, her voice smooth, practiced. I nod at the appropriate moments, but my attention drifts before she finishes the sentence.
I see her…
Elara sits near the window, the city lights washing faintly across her face. She isn't hunched the way she is at the office. Her posture is looser, one arm resting on the table, fingers idly tracing the rim of a water glass. Daniel sits across from her, leaning forward, engaged, comfortable in a way I've never seen him be around me.
She's listening.
Not the alert, guarded listening she does at work anticipating requests, bracing for correction—but something easier. Open. Her shoulders aren't drawn in. Her expression isn't carefully neutral.
She looks… at ease.
The realization lands wrong in my chest, sharp enough that I slow without intending to.
I stop.
Vivienne takes another step before she notices. When she does, she turns, following my gaze. There's a subtle shift beside me when she understands what I'm looking at. She doesn't comment.
Elara smiles at something Daniel says.
It's brief. Barely there.
It shouldn't matter. I say to myself but still It does.
I don't know how long I stand there before I move again. Long enough that the moment stops being coincidence and becomes something else entirely a decision, whether I acknowledge it or not.
"Elara."
My voice cuts through the space easily.
She looks up, surprise flickering across her face before instinct takes over. She straightens immediately, already halfway to standing, as if the movement lives in her muscles now.
Daniel turns, confusion giving way to recognition. Vivienne steps closer to my side, her presence unmistakable now, her interest carefully masked.
The truth lands heavier than anything else I could have offered.
Her gaze flicks briefly to Daniel, then back to me. "We were just having dinner."
"I can see that."
The words are neutral. My gaze isn't.
Daniel clears his throat. "If this is a bad time—"
"It's not," I say smoothly. "But the evening's done."
The sentence settles over the table like a closed door.
Elara blinks. "I can finish—"
"You've stayed long enough."
There's no sharpness in my voice. Just finality.
For a moment, I think she might push back. Her fingers tighten around the strap of her bag. Then she nods once. Daniel hesitates, clearly unsure, but he doesn't challenge it. Vivienne watches openly now, her expression unreadable.
Elara gathers her things with quiet efficiency. Her movements are controlled, but I catch the stiffness in her shoulders as she steps away from the table.
Outside, the night air is cooler, the city louder after the muted calm inside. We stop just beyond the entrance, far enough that the scene we left behind dissolves back into anonymity.
"You didn't do anything wrong," I say.
She looks at me, searching my face. "I didn't think I had."
"I didn't want you to feel scrutinized," I add.
She studies that for a moment. "I wasn't."
I don't respond. The truth is more complicated than either of us has room for right now.
"You should head home," I say. "It's late."
"Yes," she agrees.
Neither of us moves.
The silence stretches, tight and uncomfortable. The city moves around us, indifferent, but the space between us feels suspended, balanced on something neither of us can name.
My hand curls briefly at my side before I still it.
I step back first.
"Goodnight, Elara."
"Goodnight, Mr. Hale."
I turn away before the moment has time to settle into something I can't justify.
Vivienne waits until we're halfway down the block before speaking.
"That was… decisive," she says lightly.
"It was appropriate."
She hums. "Of course."
I don't ask what she means. I already know.
...........................…
At home, the silence presses in harder than usual. I pour a drink, then set it aside untouched. My attention drifts back despite myself.
Elara across that table. Relaxed. Present.
The image irritates me enough that I open my laptop, scrolling through emails I've already read. Nothing holds my attention for long.
It shouldn't matter. But for some reason it does.
The realization settles slowly, unwelcome.
The next morning, I arrive at work earlier than usual.
The floor is still waking up, lights brightening in stages. Elara is already at her desk.
She always is.
She looks tired. Not dramatically but there are faint shadows beneath her eyes she hasn't quite hidden. She doesn't look up when I pass.
I notice that too.
Meetings stack one after another, but my focus fractures more easily than usual. Her name comes up twice in discussions she isn't included in. I make a note to correct it. Then I hesitate.
Later.
I don't like the hesitation. It feels unfamiliar.
Mid-morning, Vivienne appears in my doorway without knocking.
"Do you have a minute?"
I gesture her in.
She sits, posture relaxed, eyes sharp. "I wanted to check in. About last night."
"I handled it."
"I know," she says. "I just wondered if you'd considered how it looked."
"How what looked?"
"The timing. The proximity."
I lean back. "You're reading into it."
"Possibly," she agrees easily. "People tend to."
She lets that settle before standing.
"Just something to be aware of."
Later, I find Elara in the conference room reviewing a deck she doesn't technically need to be reviewing. I close the door behind me. The click is soft. Final.
She looks up immediately.
"You didn't need to stay late yesterday," I say.
"I know. I chose to."
"You don't have to manage optics."
Her expression flickers. "I wasn't."
I watch her—the careful restraint, the way it's become instinct.
"Good."
We sit closer than necessary, reviewing the deck. She adjusts a projection without prompting. I let her. I don't interrupt.
At one point, she leans forward, her arm brushing mine.
She freezes.
So do I.
The contact lasts a fraction too long before she pulls away, breath uneven.
"I'm sorry," she murmurs.
"For what?"
She shakes her head. "Nothing."
We finish in silence.
When I stand to leave, the unease hasn't faded. It's sharpened.
I didn't intervene last night to protect her to be honest there was no need for it.
I know that now.
I intervened because I didn't trust myself to sit across from her and watch her belong somewhere else.
And that realization follows me long after the office lights dim, lingering like a question I'm not ready to answer.