48
The work week had been relentless—each day bleeding into the next, filled with deadlines, investor calls, and a pitch deck that seemed to evolve every time Amanda blinked. Ericka had barely taken a breath, let alone a proper lunch break. And Amanda? She had noticed everything.
She noticed how Ericka had started coming in even earlier than usual, her sleek hair pulled tighter, her heels sounding sharper in the hallway.
The light under her office door burned late into the evening, long after everyone else had gone home.
Amanda noticed the tension in her shoulders, the way she pinched the bridge of her nose when no one was looking.
She noticed that Ericka's responses had become shorter in meetings—not out of rudeness, but because her mind was already juggling five other things.
Even the little things changed. Ericka's coffee sat untouched longer, growing cold beside her keyboard. Her handwritten notes, once elegant and flowing, had become cramped and hurried. She smiled less, and when she did, it didn't quite reach her eyes.
Amanda had started leaving extra reminders on Ericka's calendar—small things, like a blocked-out fifteen minutes labeled "Breathe," or a cheeky note saying "Stretch your legs or I'm telling HR.
" Ericka never acknowledged them out loud, but once, Amanda caught the faintest ghost of a smile when she passed by her screen.
It was Friday afternoon when it happened. Most of the team had filtered out early, desperate to start their weekends. Amanda stayed behind, reviewing logistics for the upcoming campaign launch. She glanced up just as Ericka stood from her desk.
"Amanda," she said, her voice softer than usual. "Come here a moment."
Amanda walked over, expecting to be handed a last-minute edit or schedule request. Instead, Ericka reached into her drawer and pulled out a key. A single silver key on a sleek, black leather loop.
"I want you to have this," Ericka said, holding it out. "It's for my apartment."
Amanda blinked. "What? Why?"
"In case you ever need to stop by. For work things," she added quickly. "Files, a change of clothes, if I forget something before an event. Just... in case."
Amanda took the key slowly. It felt strangely intimate. Heavy with meaning.
"Just for work?" she asked, teasing gently.
Ericka's lips quirked. "And maybe for other things. If you ever need to. If I ever need you to."
Amanda nodded, heart fluttering. "Okay. I've got your back."
Ericka looked at her then—really looked. "I know."
________________________________________________________
The following Monday hit like a freight train.
Amanda watched Ericka closely throughout the week. It wasn't hard—she always had a reason to check in, pass her updates, organize files. But now, every small observation felt like a puzzle piece.
Ericka's eyes were glassy by Wednesday, rimmed with the kind of fatigue that concealer couldn't hide.
Her voice remained composed, her words measured, but Amanda could tell she was running on fumes.
Her meals consisted mostly of almonds and green juice.
She barely touched the salads Amanda left on her desk.
Amanda noticed her staring off between meetings, shoulders rising a fraction higher with each passing day.
So Amanda made a plan.
On Thursday, she left work a little early, feigning errands.
She went to the market two neighborhoods over to avoid running into coworkers.
There, she filled a basket with rosemary, shallots, garlic, real parmesan, heavy cream, and handmade pappardelle pasta.
She grabbed a bottle of the cabernet Ericka liked—the one she only drank on weekends and in rare moments of indulgence.
At home, she laid everything out with precision, like setting up for a mission. She selected her outfit—casual but romantic: a soft cream sweater tucked into sleek black pants, a gold pendant necklace Ericka had once complimented in passing. Then she grabbed the key.
Amanda waited until she knew Ericka would still be at the office—deep in her final meeting of the day. She texted her under the pretense of checking in on a budget sheet. As soon as she got the confirmation that Ericka was "swamped until at least eight," Amanda headed to her apartment.
The door clicked open with a subtle turn of the key.
The space was cool and quiet. Amanda stepped inside, careful not to disturb anything.
It was surreal, being in Ericka's world without her there.
Minimalist decor, calming neutral tones, a few books stacked neatly on the coffee table. Everything in its place.
Amanda kicked off her shoes and set the bags on the kitchen counter. She lit a few candles, pulled her hair back, and got to work.
She moved like a woman with purpose. Garlic hit the hot oil with a satisfying sizzle.
Cream and wine simmered into the base of her sauce while the pasta cooked in salted water.
She grated fresh parmesan and sprinkled it with cracked black pepper, then tossed everything together with soft ribbons of pasta and chopped rosemary.
The finishing touch was a salad—arugula with shaved fennel, lemon zest, and a hint of truffle oil. She poured the wine and set the table with Ericka's elegant stoneware. Dimmed the lights. Set a quiet jazz playlist through the speakers.
When it was all ready, Amanda took a moment to breathe.
Then she waited.
____________________________________________________
Ericka arrived home at 8:37 PM. Amanda had timed it down to the minute.
Amanda stood in the doorway of the kitchen, hands clasped in front of her, heart racing as the door unlocked and swung open.
Ericka stepped in, dropping her keys into the dish by the door like always—except this time, she paused.
The candlelight. The scent of rosemary and wine. The quiet music.
Amanda.
Ericka blinked. "You're here."
Amanda smiled. "You said I could use the key. Thought I'd put it to good use."
Ericka's eyes swept the room, taking in the table, the plated food, the wine.
"You made all this?" she asked, stepping forward slowly, as if afraid the moment might disappear.
Amanda nodded. "I know it's been a hard week. I wanted to give you something... good. Something that didn't ask anything from you."
Ericka's throat bobbed. "It smells incredible."
"I promise it's edible," Amanda teased, stepping closer.
Ericka looked at her, really looked—her expression softening, breaking. She reached out and cupped Amanda's cheek.
"No one's ever done this for me."
"Then they clearly didn't know what they had," Amanda said.
Dinner was quiet, but not awkward. It was full of soft laughter, gentle teasing, and a few silences that didn't need to be filled.
Afterward, they moved to the couch, Amanda curled under Ericka's arm, wine glasses resting half-full on the side table.
"I don't know how to do this," Ericka whispered.
"Me neither," Amanda replied. "But we'll figure it out."
That night, nothing else needed to be said.
Because sometimes, a meal made with intention said everything.