The next morning, the world was aggressively ordinary.
No thunder.
No flickering lights.
Just blue sky, traffic, and a calendar that look like it had been stuffed with meetings by an overenthusiastic squirrel.
Maya took the elevator up feeling like someone had stitched a secret under her skin.
One kiss.
It shouldn’t have rearranged her molecules.
It had.
She stepped onto sixty-two half expecting people to *know*.
They didn’t.
Ryan was complaining about the coffee machine.
Facilities was arguing with IT about thermostats.
Veronica was on the phone with Benefits about open enrollment.
Life went on.
Marcus was already in his office, door cracked, tie half-knotted.
He looked up as she approached.
For a fraction of a second, something flickered across his face.
Heat.
Memory.
Then it smoothed into something more neutral.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning,” she replied.
Their voices sounded normal.
Their bodies did not feel normal.
She forced herself to move through her routine.
Bag down. Laptop open. Emails scanned.
“Eleven with Legal,” she said, glancing at his calendar. “Two with Tacoma. Four with the board chair. You have thirty minutes free at ten. I’d use it to stare at a wall.”
“I’ll use it to read your deck again,” he said.
Her heart skipped.
“BridgeOps?” she asked.
“Mm,” he said. “Slide twelve is wrong. We’ll talk.”
“Bold of you to assume you’re my primary investor,” she said.
“You don’t have many,” he said. “Yet.”
She smiled, then sobered.
They weren’t going to talk about the kiss.
Not now.
Not in fluorescent light.
Not with Hart’s shadow lengthening.
That was…smart.
Also excruciating.
“Legal wants to know if you’ve deleted any texts with Hart,” she said.
“I don’t text Hart,” he said. “I have standards.”
“Tell them that,” she said. “They’ll write it into the record.”
He smirked.
The morning bled into afternoon in a blur of contracts and calls.
At eleven, Legal grilled them both again.
At two, Tacoma tried—and failed—to argue for pushing load limits in bad weather.
At four, the board chair checked in to “reaffirm confidence in management while expressing a desire for strategic agility,” which was corporate for *we chose Hart and now we’re hoping you don’t leave in a blaze of glory.*
She watched Marcus navigate it all with his usual controlled intensity.
The only real tell—the only sign that anything had changed—was the way his gaze lingered on her for half a second longer each time they locked eyes.
Like he was remembering.
Like she was.
At six, most of the floor emptied.
She stayed.
So did he.
Of course.
She pretended to work.
She answered three emails and color-coded two calendar blocks and stared at slide twelve of her deck, which now had a comment from him: *“Underpriced. Again.”*
“You’re nagging me in comments now?” she called through the open door.
“Feedback,” he said. “You said you wanted it.”
“I said I’d consider it,” she countered, stepping into his office.
He looked up.
Her breath stuttered.
Fully clothed, fully daylight, he was still that man from last night.
The one whose mouth had felt like a question she’d been dying to answer.
Focus, she scolded herself.
She walked to the table and turned the laptop his way.
“What’s wrong with slide twelve?” she asked. “Specifically.”
He studied it.
“Your retainer structure is too low,” he said. “You’re anchoring to the budgets of your last nonprofit instead of to the value you create.”
“Nonprofits don’t have retainer budgets,” she said. “They have cookies and guilt trips.”
“Then they’re not your ideal first client,” he said. “You start with small businesses that can pay. You subsidize passion projects later. You need stability before you can afford charity.”
She made a face. “You make it sound…mercenary.”
He met her gaze. “You’re allowed to be paid well for being excellent.”
Her chest warmed.
“You really are a different person than the one who thought pizza parties were acceptable compensation,” she said.
“I never thought that,” he said. “Pizza parties are a crime.”
She laughed.
He leaned back.
“Tell me something,” he said.
“What?” she asked warily.
“Did the kiss change…anything?” he asked.
Her heart jumped.
“Yes,” she said simply.
“In what way?” he pressed.
“In the way that now I know what I’m…missing,” she said, voice low. “And that it’s not just in my head.”
His eyes darkened.
“What about your…timeline?” he asked. “Did it make you want to leave sooner? Later?”
She thought about that.
“Sooner,” she admitted. “Because now that I know what it is, it’s going to be harder not to want…more.”
He inhaled sharply.
“That’s not what I was hoping you’d say,” he said. “But it’s…honest.”
“Is it what you feel?” she asked. “Wanting me out of this role faster now?”
“Yes,” he said, no hesitation. “And no. Because having you here another year is…selfishly comforting.”
“Two truths,” she said. “Both annoying.”
“We’re very annoying,” he agreed.
She sat across from him, folding her hands on the table.
“We can’t—” she began.
“I know,” he said. “No more.”
Her body pulsed in quiet protest.
Her brain agreed.
“How are you?” she asked, deflecting gently. “With…all of it.”
“Hart. The board. Your mother. BridgeOps. Kissing you,” he said.
“Yes,” she said.
He considered.
“Alive,” he said finally.
She blinked. “That’s…new.”
“Yes,” he said. “And inconvenient.”
She smiled.
“You were alive before,” she said.
“I existed,” he corrected. “I optimized. I executed. I…didn’t feel this much.”
“And you hate it,” she said.
“I hate how messy it makes everything,” he said. “But I don’t…hate the feelings themselves. Most days.”
“Progress,” she said softly.
He watched her for a beat.
“You?” he asked. “How are you?”
She chewed the inside of her cheek.
“Also alive,” she said. “Also inconvenient.”
“Your mother?” he asked.
“Still sending me turtle emojis,” she said. “Dr. Chen says remission is fragile but real. We celebrate. We scan. We wait.”
“Your Bridge?” he asked.
“Growing,” she said. “Slowly. Slide twelve notwithstanding.”
“Your…heart?” he asked quietly.
She swallowed.
“Full,” she said. “Terrifyingly.”
He didn’t look away.
“Mine too,” he said simply.
The air thickened.
She forced herself to take a slow sip of water.
“We’re not doing this again,” she reminded him. “Kissing. Data points. Whatever you want to call it.”
“I know,” he said.
“You sure?” she pressed.
He huffed. “No. But I’m going to act like I am.”
“You always do,” she said.
He smiled despite himself.
They returned to the deck.
Argued about margins.
Debated client personas.
He poked holes. She patched them.
By nine, slide twelve had been entirely rewritten.
By ten, they were both leaning back, pleasantly exhausted from using a part of their brains that wasn’t just crisis management.
“This is good,” he said, tapping the laptop.
“You keep saying that,” she said.
“Because it’s true,” he said. “You could launch this tomorrow and have clients in a month.”
“I’m not ready,” she said. “I need more…cushion. More planning.”
“Then you’ll take it,” he said. “But don’t let perfect be the enemy of out.”
She squinted at him. “Did you just paraphrase Voltaire at me?”
“I paraphrased a meme,” he said. “Voltaire stole it.”
She laughed.
Silence settled again.
This time, it was tired.
Comfortable.
Less electric.
“Go home,” he said softly. “Sleep.”
“You too,” she said.
“You know I won’t,” he said.
“Try anyway,” she said.
He hesitated.
“Will you…text me?” he asked. “When you get home. Just…so I know you’re not driving into any rogue sinkholes.”
She smiled sadly.
“Yes,” she said. “You too.”
“Penthouse elevators rarely collapse,” he said.
“First time for everything,” she said.
He rolled his eyes.
She stood.
At the doorway, she paused.
“Marcus,” she said.
He looked up.
“That kiss,” she said. “It didn’t change my exit timeline. But it did change one thing.”
“What?” he asked.
“It confirmed something,” she said. “That I’m not…I’m not building this bridge just to get away from you. I’m building it so I can walk *toward* you without losing myself.”
His expression shifted.
Softened.
Went something she didn’t have a word for.
“That,” he said quietly, “might be the most terrifyingly hopeful thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“Get used to it,” she said. “I’m not done terrifying you.”
He smiled.
“Goodnight, Maya,” he said.
“Goodnight, Marcus,” she replied.
She walked out.
Her heart pounded.
Not from fear this time.
From momentum.
From possibility.
From the dizzying, exhilarating realization that she was no longer just reacting to life.
She was choosing.
Actively.
Even if the choices were small for now.
No more “someday” fantasies.
Concrete steps.
Slides.
Timelines.
Intent.
It felt like standing at the top of a hill on a too-hot night, looking down at a city that finally, *finally*, looked like something she could shape, not just survive.
***