Alexander returned home later than usual.
The workday had drained him more than he expected—not because of the tasks, but because of the laughter, the stares, the almosts. His mind was still replaying moments he didn't intend to remember: Cynthia laughing, the projector incident, the way the office felt alive around her.
By the time he stepped into the quiet of the house, dusk had already settled.
The house felt… still.
Too still.
He loosened his tie, dropped his keys on the table, and exhaled. For once, no chaos followed him home. No smoke alarms. No accidental playlists.
Just silence.
"Sarah?" he called out absently.
No answer.
He assumed she had retired to her room for the evening. It was normal. Still, something tugged at his attention—an unease he couldn't explain.
He walked down the corridor, distracted, his thoughts tangled in work and unfinished conversations. Without looking, he reached for what he assumed was her door and pushed it open.
The door opened.
And froze time.
Sarah was inside.
Not sitting. Not reading.
She was standing near the window,with a towel wrapped around her body, showing her skin, soft lamplight casting a golden glow around her. Her hair was loose, falling naturally over her shoulders. She had been holding a book—but it slipped from her fingers the moment the door opened.
Their eyes met.
The air shifted.
Alexander stopped dead in his tracks.
"I—" he began, then stopped. "I'm so sorry. I thought you were..
"not inside? ," Sarah finished quietly.
Silence fell between them—thick, heavy, unmovable.
He stepped back immediately. "I didn't mean to— I wasn't paying attention. I'll go—"
"Sir," she said quickly.
He paused.
Her voice wasn't loud, but it carried weight.
"Yes?" he asked, careful now.
She hesitated, clearly flustered, then shook her head slightly. "It's… it's fine. You didn't do it on purpose."
"I should have knocked," he said firmly. "That was wrong of me."
She nodded, but she hadn't looked away. And neither had he.
Something unspoken hung between them—something that had been there for a while but never acknowledged.
Awareness.
Alexander cleared his throat. "I'll leave."
He turned.
"Alexander."
His name—without title, without distance—stopped him.
He turned back slowly.
"Yes?"
Sarah's hands were clenched in front of her. "I just… are you alright?"
The question caught him off guard.
"I'm fine," he said automatically.
She didn't believe him.
"I heard you came home late," she said softly. "You seemed tired this morning."
He searched her face, surprised by the concern he found there.
"It was a long day," he admitted.
She nodded. "I thought so."
Another pause.
The space between them felt smaller now.
Alexander took a careful step back—not closer, not farther—just enough to steady himself.
"I never want you to feel uncomfortable in this house," he said. "This won't happen again."
"I know," she replied. "You're not that kind of person."
The words stayed with him longer than they should have.
He gave a brief nod. "Goodnight, Sarah."
"Goodnight."
He closed the door gently behind him.
But the silence didn't return.
Sarah leaned back against the door, her heart racing in a way she did not approve of.
That had been dangerous.
Not the accident—but the moment after.
The way he looked at her—not with authority, not with distance—but with something quieter. Something human.
She pressed a hand to her chest and exhaled slowly.
This changes nothing, she told herself.
But she knew better.
Alexander didn't sleep easily that night.
He sat on the edge of his bed, jacket still on, replaying the scene again and again—not the mistake, but what followed.
The pause.
The concern in her eyes.
The way saying her name had suddenly felt… different.
He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated.
This was not a line he should even be noticing.
Sarah was part of the household. Trusted. Respected.
And yet—
His thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock.
He froze.
"Alexander?" came her voice, hesitant.
He stood immediately and opened the door.
"Yes?"
She held a folded piece of paper. "I— I forgot to give you this earlier. It's the updated household schedule."
He took it carefully, their fingers brushing for the briefest second.
Both of them felt it.
A quiet spark.
"I could've given it to you tomorrow," she added quickly.
"That's alright," he said, his voice calm but controlled. "Thank you."
She nodded, then lingered.
"I just wanted to say again," she said softly, "I wasn't upset."
"I know," he replied. "Still… thank you for your understanding."
Their eyes held.
Too long.
Something fragile stood between them—temptation wrapped in restraint.
Sarah was the first to step back.
"Goodnight, Alexander."
"Goodnight, Sarah."
She walked away, footsteps light but deliberate.
Alexander closed the door and leaned against it, eyes shut.
That door had opened more than a room.
And he wasn't sure how—or if—it could be closed again.