The day after the late-night work session, Adrian arrived at the office a little earlier than usual. The air was cool and still, the sun just beginning to spill soft gold through the blinds. The memory of Emily leaning over her laptop from last night—hair falling forward, brow furrowed in concentration—had somehow followed him into his dreams and back out into the daylight.
She walked in not long after, coffee in hand, wearing a muted beige sweater and black skirt. Her hair was loosely tied back, a few strands framing her face in that unplanned way that looked better than anything intentional. She offered him a nod as she passed, and Adrian caught himself wondering how many nods it would take before she smiled first.
"Morning," he said, a beat too quickly.
"Morning," she replied, glancing at her screen as she set her things down.
They didn't talk again until nearly ten, when Adrian wheeled his chair back to stretch and spotted her walking toward the break room. Something about the casual sway of her steps made him follow without thinking.
The coffee machine sputtered in complaint as she pressed the button for a cappuccino.
"Still trusting that thing?" he asked, leaning against the counter.
"It's coffee. It's not supposed to be trustworthy, just functional."
He smirked. "I'll give you that."
Her eyes flicked toward him briefly. "What are you doing here? I thought you were a black coffee purist."
"I am. But I've been thinking…" He let the pause hang until she tilted her head.
"About?"
"A bet."
She narrowed her eyes. "We're in an office. Bets here are dangerous."
"This one's safe. Loser buys coffee for the winner for an entire week."
She raised an eyebrow, half amused, half skeptical. "And how exactly do we determine the winner?"
"Easy. Whoever finishes today's client draft first—without errors—wins."
Emily gave a small, dismissive laugh. "That's unfair. You know I'm better at catching typos."
"Which is why I'm giving you the advantage. I type faster, you proof better. Even ground."
She considered, sipping her cappuccino. "Fine. But if I win, I'm getting the fancy caramel latte every day."
"Noted," he said. "And when I win, I'm making you drink the bitterest black coffee I can find."
"Cruel," she said, mock-offended. "But fine. You're on."
They shook on it, her grip firm but quick, like she wasn't entirely trusting of where the touch might lead.
Back at their desks, the unspoken competition began. They worked in the same row, separated by two desks, and Adrian found himself acutely aware of every time she paused, sipped her drink, or muttered something under her breath while editing. He pushed through his section, resisting the urge to check her progress.
Around noon, they both stood to stretch at nearly the same time.
"How's it going over there?" he asked casually.
She didn't even look up. "Good. Better than yours, I'm sure."
He grinned. "We'll see."
By 4:17 p.m., they were both done.
Emily was the first to stand, carrying her laptop over to their manager for review. Adrian followed seconds later. The manager reviewed both drafts, eyes moving back and forth with the speed of someone who'd done this too many times.
Finally, she looked up. "Both good. But…" She glanced at Adrian. "Yours has a minor formatting inconsistency."
Emily's eyes lit up in silent victory.
Adrian groaned. "You're making that up."
The manager smiled faintly. "Nope. Rule's a rule. Good work, both of you."
As they walked back to their desks, Emily's smile grew, slow and satisfied.
"Caramel latte, extra shot, every day for a week," she said.
He shook his head. "Enjoy it while it lasts. I'll get you next time."
The next morning, Adrian handed her the first of her seven winnings—a perfectly made caramel latte. She took it with a triumphant look, and for the first time since university, he realized he liked losing to her.
And maybe, just maybe, she knew it too.