The office building always smelled like recycled air and ambition, a strange mix of lemon cleaner and unspoken deadlines that clung to the back of the throat. By four in the afternoon, the glass walls caught the sun at an angle that made everyone look more important than they felt, reflections multiplying people into better versions of themselves. She had learned to work through it, the hum of printers, the soft tyranny of email notifications, the quiet belief that if she just stayed seated long enough, progress would eventually notice her.
She was twenty five and tired in a way sleep did not cure, the kind of tired that came from knowing what she was good at and suspecting it might never be enough. Her desk was neat without being impressive, her posture professional without being stiff, her smile practiced but not fake. People liked her in the safe way people like colleagues, with nods in hallways and small talk that never grew teeth.
Deliveries came and went like punctuation marks in her day, brief interruptions that asked for a signature and offered nothing in return. She usually signed without looking, pen gliding over paper while her eyes stayed glued to spreadsheets and half finished thoughts. Voices blurred together after a while, male, female, old, young, all reduced to the same polite script of purpose.
That was why the voice caught her off guard. It was not loud or smooth or charming in the obvious ways, but it carried something unhurried, as if it was not afraid of being ignored. "Package for marketing," it said, and the words lingered half a second longer than they should have, brushing against her attention before she could stop them.
She signed automatically, her hand moving before her mind caught up, but her eyes lifted anyway. The boy standing there had a helmet tucked under his arm and the faint sheen of sweat along his hairline, as if the city had tried to claim him and failed. He looked younger than she expected, not boyish exactly, just unfinished, like a sketch waiting for darker lines.
He smiled when she handed back the clipboard, a small, genuine curve of the mouth that did not ask for anything. She noticed the way his fingers tightened around the helmet strap, noticed the dust on his shoes, noticed herself noticing and felt mildly ridiculous for it. Delivery guys were not meant to be memorable, and yet there he was, imprinting himself into the margin of her afternoon.
"Busy day?" he asked, glancing past her at the sea of desks and glowing screens. The question was ordinary, but the way he asked it suggested curiosity rather than obligation, as if he might actually listen to the answer. She surprised herself by responding with more than a nod.
"Always," she said, letting out a breath she had not realized she was holding. "I think the building feeds on it." He laughed, soft and quick, and the sound felt like a small rebellion against the office's quiet rules.
Behind her, a coworker cleared her throat pointedly, a reminder that time was currency and conversations should be brief. She turned back to the counter, suddenly aware of how close he was standing, how the air between them felt warmer. He stepped back immediately, polite to the point of instinct, and the moment broke without breaking anything at all.
As he adjusted his helmet, she caught a glimpse of his face in full, the line of his jaw, the focus in his eyes that did not yet know how to hide itself. He looked at her like she was a person and not a position, which was unsettling in a way she could not name. She wondered, briefly and foolishly, how old he was, then dismissed the thought as irrelevant.
Outside, rain began to smear the city into softer shapes, drops streaking down the glass like the building itself was melting. She watched him step into it, jacket zipped, helmet on, disappearing into the blur of traffic with practiced ease. The office lights flickered on automatically, replacing the sun with something colder.
The rest of the afternoon moved as it always did, meetings bleeding into emails, emails bleeding into quiet resentment. And yet, something had shifted, a hairline crack in the routine she could not smooth over. She caught herself glancing at the entrance more than once, a reflex she pretended not to notice.
When another delivery arrived an hour later, it was not him, and the disappointment was immediate and unwelcome. She signed again, faster this time, irritation flickering at herself for caring. This was ridiculous, she told herself, an overreaction to a smile and a voice that happened to arrive on a dull day.
As she packed up to leave, slipping her phone into her bag, she realized she had not asked his name. The thought lingered, annoying in its persistence, refusing to be filed away with the rest of the day's trivia. She shook it off, telling herself that some things were meant to pass through without staying.
But as she stepped out into the damp evening, the city buzzing around her with wet pavement and neon reflections, she found herself listening for that voice again. It was a harmless curiosity, she reasoned, the kind that would fade by morning. And yet, somewhere between the office doors closing behind her and the street opening up ahead, she had the distinctFeeling of change in here and she didn't know what it actually was