(Xavier's POV)
The city looks different after a long morning on-site. The glass towers blur against the heat, traffic glinting in sharp ribbons of silver. Beside me in the car, Flora hums along to the radio, a faint smile on her lips. She always did like to fill silence.
I keep my eyes on the road, pretending the tension behind my ribs isn't real.
"It feels good to be back," she says. "I missed this pace—the noise, the people."
I nod. "You always said quiet cities bored you."
She laughs softly, melodic as ever. "You remember that?"
"Hard to forget."
For a few seconds, we lapse into something like comfort. It's easy with Flora; we share too much history not to. But comfort isn't always peace. It's the familiarity that carries old echoes—conversations left unfinished, glances that once meant too much.
I pull up in front of her apartment building, a tall column of glass that catches the sun like a blade. She unbuckles her seatbelt, turning to face me fully.
"It's really nice, seeing you again, Xavy."
The old nickname lands the same way it always has—too familiar, too tender. I manage a small smile. "Likewise."
"I meant it." She studies me, her gaze moving over my face, searching for something. "You look good. Stronger. Happier, maybe."
Happy. That word sits strangely in my chest, like it doesn't belong there. I settle for a careful answer. "I'm managing."
Flora chuckles softly, leaning back. "Same old Xavier. Still dodging emotional questions."
"Some habits die hard."
She reaches for the door handle, then pauses. "Dinner soon? Just us—catching up properly. I'll text you."
"Sure," I say automatically.
The door shuts, the sound echoing in the quiet car. I watch her cross the pavement, her steps unhurried, that same grace she's always carried. She glances back once, smiling as the doorman greets her, and then she's gone—swallowed by the lobby's glass doors.
When the silence settles again, I exhale. The tension in my shoulders doesn't ease; it sharpens.
For a moment, I let the air-conditioning hum fill the space, hoping it'll drown out the noise in my head. It doesn't.
All I can see is Khloe.
Her standing in the heat, clipboard in hand, sunlight catching the soft pink of her dress. The careful way she greeted Flora, the flicker of confusion in her eyes when that nickname—Xavy—slipped from Flora's lips. The way she turned away so quickly, pretending not to care.
I rub my jaw, frustrated. This isn't like me. I don't get distracted. I don't dwell on moments that should mean nothing. But today, every second felt charged. Every look, heavier than it should've been.
I drive home in silence, the city blurring past. By the time I reach my apartment, the sky is dimming, painting the skyline in amber and smoke. The building's lobby smells faintly of polished stone and coffee. The guard nods, murmurs a greeting I barely return.
Inside my penthouse, the air is still and cool. Everything in its place. The way I like it. But tonight it feels different—sterile, empty.
I shrug off my jacket, set my phone on the counter, and pour a glass of water. My reflection in the kitchen window looks detached, unreadable. The same expression I've worn for years.
I tell myself to let the day go. But my mind keeps looping back—to Flora's easy laughter, to the flash of hurt Khloe tried to hide, to the quiet moment under the awning when our hands brushed and time seemed to hesitate.
That touch shouldn't still be in my memory. It shouldn't mean anything.
Yet, when I close my eyes, it's there—vivid and alive.
Her hand small against mine, her breath catching ever so slightly. The world narrowing to that single point of contact.
I inhale sharply and set the glass down. The sound of it against marble is louder than it should be.
It's ridiculous, I tell myself. She's my assistant. Dedicated, smart, precise—but still my employee. There are lines I don't cross.
I've built my entire life on those lines.
But some part of me—the part that noticed the tremor in her voice, the flicker of jealousy she tried to hide—won't let me rest.
I check the time. Almost nine. She's probably home by now. Maybe still working. She tends to overwork, even when I tell her not to.
Before I can stop myself, I pick up my phone. My thumb hovers over her contact longer than it should. It's a simple gesture, but it feels heavier than any business call I've ever made.
I press call.
She answers on the second ring. "Hello?" Her voice is soft, cautious, threaded with surprise.
"Khloe," I say quietly. "It's me."
A small pause. "Mr. Rush." The title feels unnecessary, but she says it anyway.
"I just wanted to make sure you got home safely."
Another pause—longer this time. "I did," she replies. "Just a while ago."
"Good." I clear my throat, forcing my tone steady. "Everything wrapped up fine after we left?"
"Yes, sir. The east framework is secured. The workers finished setting the beams before lunch. I stayed back to confirm the numbers."
Of course she did. She always goes the extra mile, quietly, without asking for recognition.
"Perfect," I murmur. "You did well today."
There's a tiny exhale on her end, almost like relief. "Thank you, sir."
The silence that follows isn't awkward—it's weighted, careful. I can hear faint background noises: papers shifting, maybe her pen tapping lightly against her desk. She's still in work mode, even now.
"You sound tired," she says finally.
I lean against the counter, staring at the city lights through the glass. "Long day," I admit. "Longer than expected."
She hums softly in understanding. "I figured. It was a lot."
Her voice is gentle, the kind of softness that doesn't ask questions but somehow offers calm.
"I appreciate you staying behind," I say after a beat. "You didn't have to."
"It's part of my job," she replies, then adds, quieter, "I wanted to make sure everything was perfect."
"You always do."
She doesn't answer right away, but I can almost hear her small smile through the line.
I don't know how long we stay like that—neither of us saying much. Just breathing, the quiet stretching comfortably between us.
Then she breaks it with a question that catches me off guard.
"Flora… she seems nice."
The mention of that name shifts something inside me. "She is," I say simply. "Old friend."
"I thought so," she murmurs. "You looked… familiar."
I hesitate. "We worked together years ago. On a project overseas."
There's a pause—tiny, fragile. "You must've been close."
Her tone is casual, but there's something underneath it. Something I shouldn't want to hear but do.
"We were," I admit. "It was a long time ago."
"I see."
Just two words, but they linger.
I want to tell her it doesn't matter now. That the past is just noise compared to how steady her presence feels these days. But that would be crossing a line, and I've already edged too close.
"Khloe," I start, then stop. The weight in my chest tightens. "You handled today better than I expected. I know it wasn't easy."
"I was just doing my job," she says quickly.
"I know."
"But thank you," she adds, quieter now.
The silence between us thickens again. There's something about her voice—honest, unpolished—that makes even silence feel personal.
"You sound different," she says suddenly.
"Different how?"
"I don't know," she says, hesitant. "Maybe just… distant."
Distant. If only she knew how far from distant I feel.
"I'm fine," I lie. "Just tired."
She doesn't press. She never does. That's another thing about her—she knows when to give space, and somehow that makes her presence even harder to escape.
"I should let you rest," she says softly. "You've had a long day."
"So have you."
A small laugh escapes her. "That's true."
"Get some rest, Khloe," I say, gentler now. "Tomorrow will be another long one."
"I will. Goodnight, Mr. Rush."
"Goodnight, Khloe."
The line goes silent. But I don't move.
For a moment, I keep the phone in my hand, her name glowing faintly on the screen before fading to black. The quiet that follows isn't empty—it's full of everything I didn't say.
I set the phone down and walk to the window. The city stretches beneath me—alive, relentless, glittering. But my eyes drift past it, seeing something else entirely.
Her smile. The way she bit her lip when she tried not to react to Flora. The soft tremor in her voice when she said sir.
I press my palm against the cool glass. I've spent years building walls higher than any skyline, keeping people at a distance where they couldn't reach me.
Khloe's slipping through the cracks without even trying.
I pour myself a drink, the amber liquid catching the light. The scent of oak and smoke curls in the air as I swirl it, watching it spin.
Flora's words from earlier echo faintly in my mind: You haven't changed, Xavy.
Maybe that's not true. Maybe something in me has shifted—something small but irreversible.
I take a slow sip, letting the burn settle. My reflection stares back, unreadable, but my mind is nowhere near this room.
Old flames, new sparks. Both dangerous. Both warm enough to burn.
The difference is that one knows exactly how to hurt you. The other—she doesn't even realize she can.
I set the glass down. The faint sound of it against the marble is the only thing that breaks the silence.
When I finally speak, it's barely a whisper, carried only to the empty room.
"What are you doing to me, Khloe?"
The question hangs there, unanswered, fading into the hum of the city beyond the glass.
And for the first time in a long while, I don't know if I want the answer.