August in LA was a fever.
It crawled into the concrete, seeped into the glass, made even the seventy-second floor feel like the inside of a slow cooker when the sun hit the building just right.
Facilities fought back with the A/C.
Veronica fought back with popsicles in the staff kitchen.
Jenna fought back with a group email titled *“Dehydration Is Not a Vibe.”*
Maya fought back with a sleeveless dress and a messy bun that started the day respectable and ended up on the verge of rebellion.
“You’re melting,” Ryan observed, fanning himself with a printout.
“So is capitalism,” she said. “We’re all in this together.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he said.
“Sweating through your bra in a boardroom is never a good thing,” she retorted.
Marcus, predictably, looked unbothered.
He’d rolled his sleeves to his elbows and ditched his tie, but his posture was crisp, his hair only faintly rebellious at the nape of his neck.
The heat brought with it a strange looseness.
People lingered in the hallways more, seeking the cooler spots.
Conversations drifted.
“So you’re really doing it,” Jenna said one afternoon, leaning on Maya’s desk while nursing a popsicle like it was a martini.
“Doing what?” Maya asked, eyes on her screen.
“Planning your escape,” Jenna said. “Bridge…thingy.”
“BridgeOps,” Maya said. “Working name. Might change. Might not.”
“You showed him the deck,” Jenna said. “He didn’t combust?”
“He gave me notes,” Maya said. “Of course.”
“They good?” Jenna asked.
“Annoyingly,” Maya said. “He’s right about the pricing. I keep thinking like a nonprofit employee, not a consultant who gets to charge four figures for telling people to use a calendar properly.”
“I’ll pay you five figures if you fix Legal’s inbox,” Jenna said.
“Put it in the budget,” Maya said.
Jenna smiled, then sobered.
“How are you?” she asked. “Really.”
Maya hesitated.
She could say *fine.* She could make a joke.
Instead, she thought of Dr. Chen and her mother’s clear scan. Of Hart’s smug smile at the board meeting. Of the BridgeOps doc in her Google Drive. Of Marcus’s arms cinching around her when she’d sobbed against his shoulder.
She thought of the word *love* hanging between them like a glass ornament no one had dared touch since.
“Tired,” she said honestly. “Hopeful. Terrified. Mildly horny.”
Jenna choked. “I appreciate your candor.”
“You asked,” Maya said.
“I did,” Jenna admitted. “And I’m glad you’re not giving me the PR version.”
“PR version is ‘I’m grateful for the opportunity to grow in this role while exploring new horizons,’” Maya said.
“That made my soul itch,” Jenna said. “Never say that again.”
They both paused as Marcus emerged from his office.
He carried his tablet and a bottle of water, his expression somewhere between focused and distracted.
“Maya,” he said. “I need you for the eleven-thirty with Ops.”
“I live to color-code their pain,” she said, grabbing her tablet.
Jenna’s gaze flicked between them, then she peeled away, muttering, “I’ll just go herd my own chaos.”
In the meeting with Ops, the heat made tempers shorter.
A regional manager from Tacoma was agitated about safety guidelines cutting into productivity. A younger manager pushed back, citing Miguel’s accident. Legal hovered, making noises about OSHA.
Marcus listened, arms crossed.
“Let me be clear,” he said finally. “We’re not repeating Long Beach. I don’t care if the weather app says ‘chance of showers.’ If conditions are borderline, you err on the side of caution. We’ll eat the delays. We won’t eat a lawsuit. Or a funeral.”
The Tacoma guy frowned. “With respect, sir—”
“No,” Marcus said, voice sharp enough to cut. “Not ‘with respect.’ We’ve had this conversation. If you can’t implement that directive, I’ll find someone who can.”
Maya saw it then.
The line he’d drawn inside himself.
Before Miguel—and her, and Rachel’s call—he might have weighed the risk differently.
Now, he erred on people.
Hart would hate it.
She loved it.
After the meeting, as people filed out grumbling and grateful in equal measure, Marcus lingered by the window.
“Can I ask you something?” she said carefully.
He glanced at her. “You’re going to anyway.”
“Do you…regret it?” she asked. “The turn. The… ‘stakeholder’ thing. Now that Hart’s in the room.”
“No,” he said immediately. Then, after a beat, “Sometimes I regret not doing it ten years earlier.”
She tilted her head. “Because?”
He looked out at the hazy skyline.
“Because it would have saved some people pain,” he said. “And because it would have saved me from becoming someone I didn’t like very much.”
She watched his profile.
“It’s never too late,” she said quietly.
“It is for some things,” he said. “But not this.”
She exhaled, relief loosening a knot she hadn’t realized she still carried.
“You’re allowed to change,” she said. “Even if Hart writes op-eds about it.”
“You’re very stubborn about my redemption arc,” he said.
“I like complex protagonists,” she said. “Sue me.”
He smiled faintly.
“Speaking of lawsuits,” he said, “Legal wants to see you.”
She groaned. “What did I do?”
“They want your recollection of the salon at Hart’s office,” he said. “In case this escalates to a full proxy war.”
“Oh good,” she said. “A chance to immortalize my death wish in deposition format.”
“You’ll be fine,” he said. “Just tell the truth. Omit nothing. They can handle your mouth.”
“Bold of you to assume,” she muttered.
He watched her for a beat longer.
“You good?” he asked, softer now.
She considered.
“I will be,” she said. “Eventually.”
His gaze held hers.
“That’s my line,” he said.
“Stealing it,” she said.
“Of course you are,” he said.
***
The deposition prep with Legal was…fun.
If your definition of fun included going over every inflammatory thing you’d said to a billionaire activist and watching a lawyer’s eye twitch.
“Ms. Brooks,” Alisha said, rubbing her temples, “when you told Mr. Hart, and I quote, ‘if this world eats me, it’ll choke,’ what was your intent?”
“To make him question his life choices,” Maya said.
“That is not helpful in court,” Alisha groaned. “We’re going to frame it as…passionate disagreement.”
“Accurate,” Maya said.
“You understand that if this goes to trial, opposing counsel will have access to your emails, texts, possibly Slack messages,” Alisha said. “They will look for anything that paints you as biased against Hart.”
“I *am* biased against Hart,” Maya said.
“Yes,” Alisha said. “But we’d prefer that bias not be discoverable in emoji form.”
Maya winced. “I may have called him a ‘discount Bond villain’ in a DM to Ryan.”
Alisha closed her eyes briefly. “Of course you did.”
“I can testify,” Maya offered. “Very earnestly. About his villainy.”
“No,” Alisha said. “You can testify about what you saw. Heard. Observed. Not your opinion of his soul.”
“Does he have one?” Maya muttered.
“Maya,” Alisha said warningly.
“Okay,” Maya sighed. “Facts. No metaphors. I’ll pretend I’m an accountant.”
“You’d be a terrible accountant,” Alisha said.
“Rude,” Maya said.
But as they went through the events line by line, she realized something.
She wasn’t afraid.
Not really.
Annoyed, yes. Concerned about being dragged into a legal theater, absolutely.
But not afraid.
Because she’d told the truth, already, when it mattered.
In that glass office.
In a guest suite.
On a hallway floor.
She wasn’t afraid of telling it under oath too.
That realization sat under her skin like a quiet hum.
She’d spent so much of her early career biting her tongue.
Now that it was unleashed, she didn’t want to put it back in its cage.
She wouldn’t.
Not for Hart.
Not for press.
Not for Marcus.
He’d have to take her as she was.
Or not at all.
***
The heat broke on a Thursday.
A freak thunderstorm rolled in off the ocean, dark and heavy, throwing bolts over the skyline.
“Déjà vu,” Ryan said, peering out the window. “Do we have another crane accident in our future?”
“Don’t tempt fate,” Maya said, checking her phone for Ops updates.
“Relax,” he said. “They learned. They sent everyone home an hour ago.”
She exhaled. “Good.”
At six, the storm was at its loudest.
Rain pounded the glass. Lightning flickered, making the lights in the office hum and dim for a heartbeat each time.
Most people cleared out.
She didn’t.
Neither did he.
Of course.
At seven-fifteen, her phone buzzed.
Mom: *Heard thunder. You at work?*
Maya: *Unfortunately.*
Mom: *Don’t drive in this. Sleep in your fancy coffin pods.*
Maya smiled.
Maya: *They gave me a guest suite last time. Trying to get that as a company perk.*
Mom: *Ask for a raise too while you’re at it.*
Maya: *On it.*
She put the phone down and rubbed her eyes.
Her BridgeOps doc sat open in a background tab.
Slide eighteen: *Risks and Mitigations.*
She’d listed some.
— Burnout. — Financial instability. — Identity shift. — Loss of daily structure.
She’d added a new one after their last talk.
— Complication with primary investor (a.k.a. guy I’m in love with).
Mitigation: ???
Her cursor blinked at the question marks.
“How’s the weather?” Marcus asked, appearing at her desk with his jacket over one arm.
“Biblical,” she said. “You have a minute, Noah?”
He glanced at the window, then at her screen.
“You’re staying?” he asked.
“Not driving in this,” she said. “My mother would hunt you down.”
“Terrifying,” he said. “Guest suite is still accessible. I had Facilities keep your badge clearance.”
“Of course you did,” she murmured.
He hesitated.
“I have wine,” he said abruptly.
She blinked. “At the office?”
“In the cabinet,” he said. “One bottle. Emergency use only.”
“This qualifies?” she asked.
“Board plus Hart plus storm plus remission,” he said. “I’d say yes.”
She considered.
Line.
Terms.
Intent.
But also—context.
They weren’t sneaking off to a hotel.
They were two overworked people in a fortress of glass, sheltering from the weather with a mediocre Merlot.
“Okay,” she said. “One glass. Then you go home. Or to your penthouse lair. Whatever.”
He smirked. “Lair?”
“You definitely have a secret evil lair,” she said. “Probably with a wall of screens and a weighted blanket.”
He shook his head, amused, and jerked his chin toward his office.
“Come on,” he said. “Before the power goes out and you have to drink with Legal.”
She shuddered. “You’re right. Lead the way.”
***
The wine was indeed mediocre.
But the glasses were nice—heavy crystal, probably some ridiculous brand.
“You know there are actual studies about wine tasting better in fancy glasses,” she said, swirling the liquid.
“Placebo,” he said.
“Everything is placebo,” she said. “Feelings. Stock prices. Love.”
He looked at her over the rim of his glass.
“Love is not placebo,” he said quietly.
Her heart thumped.
“Well,” she said, trying for light, “you could argue it’s a cocktail of hormones and social conditioning.”
“You could,” he said. “You’d be wrong.”
Heat prickled along her neck.
“Are we really doing this?” she asked. “Wine and metaphysics during a thunderstorm? That’s very on the nose.”
“We’re very on the nose,” he said. “Might as well commit.”
Thunder rumbled, low and distant.
Rain streaked the windows.
They sat in the soft light of his office—desk lamp on, overheads dimmed—with the city a blurred watercolor beyond.
“What were you working on,” he asked, “when I interrupted?”
“BridgeOps,” she said. “Risk slide.”
“What are you afraid of?” he asked.
“Pick a topic,” she said.
“You,” he said.
She sighed. “Losing myself. Failing. Succeeding. Becoming you.”
His mouth twitched. “What’s wrong with being me?”
“Too many suits,” she said. “Not enough naps.”
He huffed a laugh.
“And me?” he asked. “What do you think I’m afraid of?”
“Losing control,” she said. “Failing. Succeeding in the wrong way. Becoming your father.”
His expression flickered.
“You’re not wrong,” he said.
“I rarely am,” she said.
They sipped.
Silence settled.
Not awkward.
Just…heavy.
“You meant it,” she said after a moment. “What you said. about a year.”
“Yes,” he said.
“And about…loving me,” she added, heart pounding.
“Yes,” he said again.
Her throat worked.
“I keep waiting for it to…fade,” she confessed. “So I can make a rational decision. But it’s not.”
He studied her.
“For me either,” he said.
She looked at the rain.
“I don’t know how to do this,” she said quietly. “Any of it. Be in love like this. Plan my exit. Not explode my life in the process.”
“Me either,” he said. “I’m used to tearing things down and rebuilding them. Not…gently reconfiguring.”
“We’re very bad at gentle,” she said.
“We’re…learning,” he said.
She smiled faintly.
“You asking me to write a business plan for my exit was weirdly romantic,” she said.
He made a face. “Don’t say that.”
“It was,” she insisted. “It said, ‘I want you to have something that’s yours, not just be an extension of my calendar.’ That’s…huge.”
“It’s selfish too,” he said. “The stronger you are outside of here, the less guilt I have about wanting you fully.”
“Honesty looks good on you,” she said.
“Stop saying that,” he muttered.
Thunder boomed, closer this time.
The lights flickered.
She tensed automatically.
He noticed.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Storms,” she said lightly. “Remind me of MRI machines.”
He frowned. “Noisy tubes?”
“Yeah,” she said. “You lie there, and all you can do is wait. And think about all the ways your life could change in the next hour.”
He nodded slowly.
“I hated not being able to fix that for you,” he said.
“You did,” she said. “In the ways you could. You cleared days. You called board members. You held me.”
He looked at her.
Their eyes locked.
“We can…kiss,” she blurted.
The words shocked even her.
His fingers tightened around his glass.
“What?” he said, voice rough.
“We can…kiss,” she repeated, heart racing. “Just that. Once. No…further. No ‘accidental’ sleepovers. No using it to push me. Just…because I want to know.”
“Know what?” he asked, sounding strangled.
“If it’s…worth all this,” she said, barely audible.
Silence.
The storm outside roared.
Inside, the air went dead still.
“Maya,” he said. “We said—”
“I know what we said,” she cut in. “We said no crossing the line while I work for you. And maybe this is crossing it. But it feels…honest. We’re not pretending anymore. We’re not…kids. We can handle a kiss.”
His jaw worked.
“You think we can put that back in the box?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “I think the box is already open. This is just…acknowledging it.”
He stared at her.
She set her glass down carefully.
Stood.
He watched, like a man watching a wave he couldn’t decide whether to dive under or let crash over him.
She walked around the table.
Stopped in front of him.
Close.
The wine made her bolder.
So did the remission.
So did the fact that they had a year, and she was tired of wondering.
“If I kiss you,” he said, voice low, “I’m not…neutral.”
“I know,” she said. “Neither am I.”
He exhaled, shaky.
“Tell me,” he said, “this doesn’t change your timeline.”
“It doesn’t,” she said. “I still want to leave this job before…us. I still want BridgeOps. I still want my own thing. This doesn’t change that. It just…adds a data point.”
He let out a half-laugh, half-groan. “You’re weaponizing my love of data.”
“Whatever works,” she whispered.
He reached up.
Gently.
So gently.
His fingers brushed her cheek, tucking a stray curl—rebellious from the humidity—behind her ear.
Her skin prickled.
“Maya,” he said again, like a prayer, a warning, a benediction.
“Yes,” she breathed.
He closed the last inch.
The first contact was light.
Testing.
His mouth brushed hers, a question more than a demand.
Her whole body answered.
Heat flared, sharp and immediate, from her lips down her spine.
She made a small sound—half surprise, half something else—and leaned in.
He deepened the kiss.
Still gentle.
Still controlled.
But there, under the surface, the tension she’d felt for months—years, if she was honest with herself.
His hand slid to the back of her neck, not pulling, just…anchoring.
Her fingers found the front of his shirt, curling in the fabric near the open collar.
He tasted like wine and mint and something distinctly him.
Thunder boomed.
Lights flickered again.
She didn’t care.
For a moment, the world shrank to the press of his mouth, the rasp of his breath, the jolt of recognition that shot through her.
Oh.
Oh.
This.
This is what we’ve been skirting.
This is why it’s been so hard not to cross.
He pulled back first.
Barely.
Their mouths still a breath apart.
His eyes were dark, pupils blown, chest rising and falling a little faster.
“Data point?” he murmured.
She laughed, breathless.
“Significant,” she said. “Statistically.”
He smiled, wrecked and fond.
“We should stop,” he said, though his thumb was still stroking the nape of her neck.
“We did,” she pointed out.
“Earlier,” he said.
She hesitated.
Then, carefully, stepped back.
Space opened between them.
The tension didn’t dissipate.
It just…spread.
Infused everything.
“We’re not doing that again,” he said slowly. “Not until you leave this job. I can’t…trust myself to keep it at ‘data point.’”
“Okay,” she said, surprising herself with how much she meant it.
He blinked. “Okay?”
“Yes,” she said. “One kiss. Considered. Chosen. Catalogued. Enough.”
“For now,” he said.
“For now,” she echoed.
They stood there, catching their breath, the storm easing outside, the office humming quietly.
He raked a hand through his hair.
“I’m sorry,” he said abruptly.
“For what?” she asked, startled.
“For…making this harder,” he said. “For not being…safer.”
She shook her head. “Don’t apologize for wanting me, Marcus. I’d be more offended if you didn’t.”
He let out a surprised laugh.
“You’re impossible,” he said.
“I’m honest,” she said. “You’re the one who asked for that.”
He sobered.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what?” she asked.
“For trusting me with that,” he said. “For…trusting yourself.”
Her throat tightened.
“Don’t make it sound noble,” she said. “I mostly wanted to know if it would ruin me.”
“And?” he asked.
“It might,” she said. “But…in a way I’m willing to risk. Once.”
He nodded.
“Then we go back to work,” he said. “And building bridges. And plotting exits.”
“And trying not to jump you in the war room,” she said lightly.
“Please don’t,” he said. “The chairs are very expensive.”
She laughed.
The storm outside began to clear.
In here, another weather system settled.
Different.
Charged.
But defined.
They’d crossed one line.
Deliberately.
Now they’d have to see if they could hold the others.
Slow burn, she thought wryly, had just become slow torture.
But for the first time, she knew exactly what she was holding out for.
And that, she thought as she picked up her wineglass with slightly trembling fingers, made all the difference.
***