The warmth from the morning hadn’t faded, even as the city swallowed into its steel and glass. It was still there—woven into the way I carried myself, in the easy lift at the corner of my mouth.
Val had done that. A sleepy-eyed Val, hair mussed in a way she’d never let anyone else see, standing barefoot in the kitchen, insisting I eat before heading out. She didn’t even realize how dangerously beautiful she looked when she was tired. Or maybe she did. Either way, I’d replayed the image more tis than I cared to admit before stepping through Gray & Milton’s doors.
Inside, the office buzzed with the muted rhythm of productivity. Phones clicked into receivers, printers humd, and voices spoke in professional, clipped tones. I gave a few nods and exchanged half-smiles as I passed familiar faces. Priya already had her head down at her desk, typing like the computer owed her rent.
Derrick lifted a hand in greeting, mouthing a loud, "Morning, lover boy," that made roll my eyes.
Finally, I sank into my chair, tugged open the spreadsheet I’d been assigned, and let myself fall into numbers. Numbers never lied. They might hide in formulas and conditional formats, but if you pressed them enough, they always told the truth. People? They were another story.
The Bilmirage account sprawled across my screen—layers of projections, expenses, returns, graphs. Big company. Big money. The kind of account they didn’t just hand to rookies. Which probably explained why I was stuck staring at one section, unsure if what I was calculating lined up with their projections.
I leaned back, running a hand through my hair, then glanced over at Derrick. "Hey, can I borrow you for a second?"
He looked up from his monitor, grinning. "Borrow ? Careful, man. I co with interest rates."
I snorted. "Seriously. Just take a look."
He wheeled his chair over, skimming the numbers on my screen. His brows drew together for a second before he leaned back. "Hmm. You’re good here, but—see this? This is where you could be off by a margin. Bilmirage is picky. If their numbers and ours don’t dance perfectly, they’ll throw a fit."
I leaned closer. "So how do you suggest I adjust it?"
He drumd his fingers on the desk, then pointed across the room. "Honestly? Run it by Tasha. She’s lead on this account. Clarkson put her in charge for a reason. She’ll know exactly how they want it shaped."
Tasha. Right. I’d managed to avoid more than a few words with her since yesterday. Not intentionally—just naturally. Still, Derrick was right. If she was lead on this account, she was the person to ask.
I nodded. "Thanks, man."
"Anyti." He smirked, leaning back into his chair. "And hey—don’t overthink it. She doesn’t bite."
"Sure," I muttered, pushing up to my feet. But as I crossed the office toward Tasha’s desk, I wasn’t entirely convinced Derrick believed that either.
Her desk was tidy in that way that told you she spent extra minutes making sure it was. A single pen lay parallel to her notepad, her monitor spotless, her papers stacked at a perfect right angle. She glanced up as I approached, and gave a small smile that felt more like a curve of politeness than warmth.
"Kai," she said, my na crisp on her tongue.
I nodded. "Hey, uh... mind if I run sothing by you? It’s about the Bilmirage account."
"Of course," she said smoothly, gesturing to the spot beside her desk.
I set my laptop down and pulled up the section in question, explaining where I’d gotten stuck. My tone was professional, clipped, nothing casual in it. Numbers, formulas, margins. The sort of thing that had no room for subtext.
She leaned in, scanning the figures with practiced ease. I followed her gaze, pointing at the specific cell that was throwing off.
"So I thought about adjusting it here," I said, "but that would skew the forecast column. Unless Bilmirage prefers conservative estimates—then I’d need to shift these projections instead."
Tasha humd, low in her throat, considering. "You’re right. Conservative margins would smooth it, but they’ll accuse us of sandbagging. Keep it tighter. Adjust here, then cross-reference this tab with their Q4 filings. It’ll balance out."
I nodded, fingers flying across the keyboard as I adjusted what she suggested. It worked, the numbers aligning in a way that instantly made sense. "Got it. Thanks."
She smiled, faint but there. "You learn fast."
"Trying to," I said lightly, closing the laptop again.
That was it. Professional, simple. Or so I thought.
What I didn’t notice—what slipped past entirely—was the way her eyes had drifted downward in the middle of our talk, settling on my hand. On the ring.
---
By lunch, the office was already half-empty. Chairs scraped back, conversations about sandwiches and noodle shops filled the air. Derrick tried once again to drag out. "Co on, man. First week initiation—don’t let down."
I waved him off with a grin. "I’ll catch you guys later. Just want to finish this while I’m on a roll."
He rolled his eyes, muttering sothing about "spreadsheet junkies," then disappeared with the rest.
I stayed, the quiet of the office settling over as I turned back to my work. It was easier this way. No noise, no distraction. Just and the numbers.
Except I wasn’t alone for long.
Soft footsteps approached, and when I glanced up, Tasha was standing a few feet from my desk, her expression unreadable.
"Not hungry?" she asked.
I blinked, caught off guard. "Uh? Oh." I scratched the back of my neck, awkward. "I just... wanted to finish this first."
She tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing in that way that suggested she was filing sothing away in her mind. "Okay. Just don’t starve yourself too much. Food equals strength, which in turn equals productivity."
I gave a quick nod. "Right. Got it."
For a second, she didn’t move. Just stood there, gaze lingering a fraction too long, as if there was sothing else she wanted to say but thought better of it. Then, just as quickly, she straightened, offered a small nod, and walked out of the office.
I watched her leave, brow furrowed, unsure what that was supposed to an. Whatever it was, I didn’t have the energy—or interest—to puzzle it out. Not when work sat waiting.
So I turned back to my screen, fingers moving, the silence settling around again.
If there was anything in her look, in her pause, in the way she lingered—it was lost on .
And maybe that was for the best.
---
To be continued...
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