Three weeks later, the line had become a part of the landscape.
They didn’t talk about it.
They didn’t revisit the elevator or his father or the argument by the door.
They just…worked.
Calls. Deals. Crises. The slow, grinding process of integrating Arcturus into Kane Global’s infrastructure.
On the surface, nothing had changed.
Underneath, everything had.
He still looked at her. Often. But the looks were shorter now, more contained. He pulled back a fraction faster if he found himself standing too close. He didn’t let his voice drop into that low, intimate register unless he was very, very tired—and when he caught himself, he’d clear his throat and redirect.
She was no saint either.
She still noticed the way his jaw flexed when he concentrated. The way his shirt pulled across his shoulders when he shrugged into his jacket. The way his mouth softened, just a little, when he said *thank you* and meant it.
But she kept a tighter rein on her tongue. On her late-night text drafts. On the part of her that wanted to make him laugh just to see what it looked like on his face.
They were…careful.
And for a while, it worked.
Until it didn’t.
***
It started with a storm.
Los Angeles wasn’t built for rain. Not real rain. Not the kind that came down in sheets, turning freeways into parking lots and intersections into shallow lakes.
On a Thursday in late March, the sky opened up.
By noon, traffic alerts were pinging like popcorn. Flights were delayed. Power flickered in neighborhoods that had never bothered to bury their lines.
On sixty-two, the storm was pretty—a gray curtain beyond the glass, droplets racing each other down panes.
“Pretty,” she said, watching the city blur.
“Disruptive,” Marcus said, scanning a weather map on his screen. “Half the inbound shipments to Long Beach are going to be delayed. Port schedules are going to be a nightmare.”
“You can’t control the weather,” she said.
“I can control how we respond to it,” he said. “Get Ops. Now.”
By five, the storm had worsened. By six, the mayor had declared a soft emergency. By seven, most of the building was empty.
Except for them.
Of course.
She wasn’t surprised when HR sent a building-wide email at six-thirty suggesting that any non-essential staff go home immediately.
She was also not surprised when Marcus read it and didn’t move.
“We have ships stuck outside Long Beach,” he said. “A crane failure in Seattle. A flooded warehouse in Oakland. I’m not going anywhere until those are either solved or contained.”
“Then I’m not either,” she said.
He gave her a look. “You don’t have to prove anything, Maya.”
“I’m not proving,” she said. “I’m…stubborn.”
He sighed. “At least call your mother. Tell her you’re not out driving in this.”
The fact that he remembered that her mother worried about that made her chest pinch.
“Yes, sir,” she said, half mocking, half grateful.
She stepped into the hallway and dialed.
Her mother answered on the second ring. “Maya. Are you home? The news said it’s bad downtown.”
“I’m at work,” Maya said. “We’re…dealing with things. I’ll probably crash on a friend’s couch nearby. Don’t worry.”
“You should go home,” her mother said. “Or come here. That man can live without you for one night.”
Maya smiled despite herself. “You’ve never met him.”
“I don’t need to,” her mother said. “I know his type.”
“He’s not—” Maya started, then stopped. “He’s…trying. In his own way.”
Her mother made a noncommittal noise. “Trying doesn’t pay the hospital,” she said, then softened. “I’m just saying, don’t let him take everything, baby.”
“I won’t,” Maya said. “Promise.”
“Eat something,” her mother added. “I know you forget when you’re busy. And don’t drive yourself. The freeways are a zoo.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Maya said.
She hung up and went back into the office.
“Happy?” she asked Marcus.
“Moderately,” he said. “Any guilt trip?”
“The usual,” she said. “You’re stealing my youth. I’m going to die at my desk. I should have been a dentist.”
He huffed a laugh. “She’s not wrong.”
“About the dentist part, maybe,” she said. “Open wide and say ‘synergy.’”
He made a face.
They worked.
The hours blurred. Calls. Updates. Spreadsheets.
By nine, the storm pounded so hard against the glass that it sounded like static.
She glanced at her phone. Multiple push alerts about freeway closures.
“You should go,” he said quietly, not looking at her.
“Have you *seen* the traffic maps?” she said. “They’re blood-red. And my neighborhood floods if someone leaves a hose on.”
“Then take a car service and a hotel,” he said. “Charge it to Corporate. HR can yell at me later.”
“You’re assuming hotels have rooms left,” she said. “Half the city is probably trying to check in right now because they watched one too many disaster movies.”
He frowned at his screen. “Fine. Then stay here.”
She blinked. “Here…where?”
“In the building,” he said. “There are nap rooms on 48. And a couple of empty furnished offices from when we thought we’d be expanding faster. I’ll have Facilities find you a space with a couch.”
She opened her mouth. Closed it again.
“You’re not leaving either, are you?” she said.
He shook his head, still focused on an operations report. “No.”
“So we’re both…” She gestured at the windows. “…marooned.”
“Temporarily,” he said.
Her chest did that stupid thing again. That *ping* of awareness.
Overnight.
It didn’t have to mean anything.
It meant: storm. Logistics. Safety.
Except…they were who they were.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll email Facilities.”
“I’ll do it,” he said. “You finish triaging.”
“Bossy,” she muttered, turning back to her screen.
Ten minutes later, an email pinged her inbox.
> From: Facilities > To: Maya Brooks > Cc: Marcus Kane > Subject: TEMPORARY OVERNIGHT ACCOMMODATION > > Ms. Brooks, > > Per Mr. Kane’s request, Room 4807 has been unlocked and prepped for overnight use. Keycard access has been added to your badge. Linens and basic toiletries have been provided. > > Please let us know if you need anything additional. > > Regards, > Facilities
She clicked the attachment.
A floorplan of 48. Room 4807: *Executive Guest Suite*.
Her eyebrows shot up.
“You’re putting me in a *guest suite*?” she called through the open door. “Is there a minibar? Do I get slippers?”
“It was that or a nap pod,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d appreciate trying to sleep in something that looks like a fancy coffin.”
“Accurate,” she said.
She finished her tasks for the hour, then stood and stretched, joints popping.
He glanced up.
“Go check it out,” he said. “Make sure it’s acceptable before Facilities disappears for the night.”
“You sound like you think I’m going to demand a refund,” she said.
“You’re…particular,” he said. “In your own way.”
She snorted. “Look who’s talking.”
She took the elevator down to 48.
The guest suite was nicer than her entire apartment.
A small sitting area with a couch and a low table. A separate bedroom with a queen bed. A bathroom with a shower. Soft lighting. Minimalist art.
On the bed, a stack of white towels and a little basket with travel-size toiletries.
“Damn,” she muttered. “Corporate really is another planet.”
She set her tote down and sat on the edge of the bed.
The quiet hummed.
She realized, abruptly, how tired she was.
How raw her nerves felt.
How close the storm sounded, even twelve floors down.
She texted Kai a photo of the room.
Maya: *Trapped by storm. Company put me in a guest suite. Send help or snacks.*
Kai: *That is nicer than my last Airbnb. Do you get room service?*
Maya: *If I ask nicely, maybe Marcus will bring me a protein bar.*
Kai: *Do NOT sext your boss.*
Maya: *I wasn’t—*
Kai: *I KNOW YOU, BROOKS.*
Maya: *We drew a line.*
Kai: *You drew a line. In pencil. On wet concrete.*
Maya: *We’re following it.*
Kai: *You’re texting me from a bed 14 floors below him. You’re not following ANYTHING.*
Maya stared at the screen, then typed carefully.
Maya: *I’m tired. I’m not doing anything. I’m showering and sleeping and pretending this is just another Thursday.*
Kai: *Good. Pretend hard.*
She put her phone face down.
She showered quickly, letting the hot water try to pound the tension out of her shoulders.
She’d come prepared for a long night without quite admitting it to herself—leggings and a soft T-shirt were already in her tote, along with a toothbrush and a small bottle of moisturizer.
She dried her hair, scraped it into a bun, and padded barefoot back into the suite.
The clock on the wall said 10:42.
She could go back upstairs.
Check in. See if he needed anything.
Or she could not.
She lay down, pulling the blanket over herself.
Stared at the ceiling.
Listened to the rain.
And, because her self-control had limits, she picked up her phone and typed.
Maya: *Suite is great. Thanks for not making me sleep in a coffin pod.*
There was a longer delay than usual.
Then:
Marcus: *You’re welcome. Try to sleep.*
Maya: *You?*
Marcus: *Still working.*
Maya: *Shocking.*
Marcus: *Go to sleep, Maya.*
She hesitated.
Maya: *Goodnight, Marcus.*
The typing dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Marcus: *Goodnight.*
She set the phone down.
Closed her eyes.
Sleep came in starts and stops.
At some point, the rain softened. The thunder moved further away.
She woke once, disoriented, at 2 a.m. Checked her phone. No new messages. No new crises.
She thought, *He’s still up,* then scolded herself for thinking about him at all.
She drifted back under.
The second time she woke, it was to a soft knock on the suite door.
Her hand went to her phone automatically. 3:17 a.m.
Her heart leapt into her throat.
She slid out of bed, bare feet soundless on the carpet, and crossed to the door.
She peered through the peephole.
Marcus.
Her pulse spiked.
She opened the door a crack. “Is everything okay?” she whispered.
He stood in the hallway in shirtsleeves, tie gone, top buttons undone. He looked…wrecked. Eyes shadowed, hair a little mussed like he’d run his hands through it one too many times.
“Long Beach just called,” he said. “We had a crane operator slip. He’s in the hospital. Stable, but…shaken.”
She opened the door wider. “Shit. Is he…?”
“Conscious,” Marcus said. “He’ll be fine. Two broken ribs, concussion. But it could have been worse.”
Her stomach churned. “I’m sorry.”
He nodded, jaw tight. “I needed to tell someone.”
The admission hung there. Quiet. Raw.
“Come in,” she said before she could overthink it. “Just for a minute.”
He hesitated. The line crackled in the air between them.
Then he stepped inside.
She closed the door softly.
They stood in the dim light of the suite’s sitting area, inches apart, both of them in clothes that weren’t quite work and not quite casual.
She suddenly became acutely aware that she was barefoot. That her T-shirt was thin and soft and not designed to be seen by anyone except her couch.
He looked…tired. In a way she didn’t usually see.
Not just physically.
Worn.
“You couldn’t call Oliver?” she asked gently.
“Oliver’s wife is nineteen weeks pregnant,” he said. “He finally got her to sleep. I’m not waking him unless a ship goes down.”
“Jenna?” she asked.
“She’s on a red-eye to New York,” he said. “And I didn’t want to talk strategy. I just—”
He broke off. Stared at his hands.
“I keep thinking about his wife,” he said quietly. “I met her once at a barbecue. She was pregnant. Eight months. He insisted on working overtime that week because he wanted the bonus. Now she’s probably sitting in some ER waiting room wondering if she’s going to be a single mother.”
Her chest ached. “You called the hospital?”
“Yes,” he said. “I told them we’d cover everything. That he didn’t need to worry about bills.”
“That’s…good,” she said softly. “That will help.”
“It doesn’t change the fact that he almost died because we pushed for a double shift in shit weather,” he said, voice rough.
“You didn’t know a crane would slip,” she said.
“I knew the conditions increased risk,” he said. “I signed off on the schedule anyway. The line manager pushed. Ops signed. I approved. That’s my name on that decision. On that near miss.”
“Marcus,” she said quietly. “You can’t control everything.”
“I can control enough,” he said. “Or I should be able to. That’s the job.”
She stared at him.
This was the piece most people didn’t see. The weight. The sleepless calculus of risk and reward.
He looked up, eyes locking with hers.
“I hate this part,” he said. “The part where someone bleeds for a number on a spreadsheet.”
“I know,” she said.
He swallowed. “Do you?”
She thought of his father saying *you think I don’t read the papers?*, of the trail of headlines behind him.
“I think you’re better than you think you are,” she said honestly. “And worse than you want to be. Like everyone else.”
He huffed a breath that was almost a laugh, almost a sob.
She stepped closer. Without thinking.
Her hand lifted.
She almost hesitated.
Then she laid her palm lightly against his forearm.
Warm. Solid. Human.
He didn’t flinch.
He also didn’t move away.
“You did what you could tonight,” she said. “You’ll do more tomorrow. That’s all there is.”
“It’s not enough,” he said.
“It has to be,” she said. “Or you’ll eat yourself alive.”
He looked down at where her hand touched him.
Slowly, like he was moving underwater, he turned his wrist, fingers brushing the inside of her wrist.
Heat flared through her.
She should have pulled away.
She didn’t.
He watched her, searching her face.
“Maya,” he said, voice low and wrecked. “The line…”
“Is still there,” she whispered. “But we’re…human.”
His fingers tightened around her wrist.
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to that point of contact. His hand. Her skin. The storm outside.
He stepped closer. So close she could feel his breath on her cheek.
“If I kiss you,” he said, every word a rasp, “I won’t be able to pretend it’s nothing.”
Her pulse thundered.
“If you kiss me,” she whispered, “I won’t be able to pretend it’s just the storm.”
Silence.
His thumb traced a slow path along her pulse. Her whole body shuddered.
“Tell me no,” he said.
It was a plea and a challenge and a benediction.
She opened her mouth.
“No,” she said.
His grip tightened. His jaw clenched.
“And if I don’t stop?” he asked, almost to himself.
“Then I will,” she said, breathless. “Because I’m not losing this job because of your mouth.”
A strangled laugh broke out of him. The tension in his shoulders cracked.
He rested his forehead against hers for half a second. Just a touch. Just long enough for her to inhale him. Coffee, soap, something undeniably *him*.
Then he stepped back, abruptly, like he’d yanked himself away from an open flame.
Her hand fell to her side, fingers tingling.
“Thank you,” he said hoarsely.
“For what?” she whispered.
“For being stronger than I am,” he said.
She shook her head. “Don’t give me that much credit. I almost didn’t.”
“Almost is enough,” he said.
They stood there, both breathing hard, not touching.
The storm outside had eased to a steady patter.
He raked a hand through his hair. “I shouldn’t have come down here.”
“You needed someone,” she said.
“Not…like this,” he said. “Not you.”
“You don’t get to decide who’s there for you,” she said softly. “You just…are or you aren’t.”
He looked at her.
“What are we doing?” he asked, voice barely audible.
“Apparently?” she said. “Resisting.”
He laughed, a rough, broken sound that did something awful and wonderful to her insides.
“I should go,” he said.
“You should,” she agreed.
He didn’t move.
“Marcus,” she said gently.
He nodded once. “Right.”
He went to the door. Put his hand on the handle.
Paused.
“Goodnight, Maya,” he said, without turning around.
“Goodnight,” she said.
The door clicked shut.
She slid down the wall and sat on the floor, head in her hands.
Her whole body vibrated.
She’d said no.
She’d meant it.
And yet, a part of her—small and treacherous—mourned the kiss that almost happened.
She stayed there until her breathing slowed.
Then she climbed back into the too-soft bed in the too-nice room and stared at the ceiling until dawn.
***