The Frost Between Us Thaws at Midnight

I’ve spent three years perfecting my armor: a high-rise office, an impeccably tailored wardrobe that feels like chainmail, and a tongue sharp enough to draw blood from the most confident interns. I told myself loneliness was just another word for independence.
Then came Elias—a man who looks at me not as a corporate machine, but as someone who might actually be breaking under her own weight. He doesn't use words; he uses silence and small gestures that make my skin itch with unfamiliar heat.
Last night, after I’d spent an hour tearing apart his project proposal in front of the board—mostly because it was too honest for this city—he didn't argue. Instead, he left a single cup of peppermint tea on my desk at 9 PM and wrote a note: 'Your eyes look tired today.'
I wanted to throw the tea across the room. I wanted to tell him his sentimentality was an inefficiency we couldn’t afford.
Instead, I let it warm my hands while I stared out at the neon grid of New York, feeling this stupid, terrifying crack in my chest where he had managed to slip through. When he walked back into the office and just stood there—close enough that I could smell rain and old books on his sweater—I didn't look up.
But as he reached out to brush a stray hair from my forehead, I leaned into it for exactly two seconds before pulling away with a sneer. 'Don’t get comfortable,' I whispered, even though every nerve ending was screaming at me to let him pull me into the dark.

Editor: Hedgehog