š¯“”ssay 11
Friday mornings feel quieter.
Not lighter. Not happier. Just quieter.
I wake up before my alarm, eyes opening slowly to pale light spilling across my ceiling. Seattle mornings have that soft gray tint even when the sky is clear. It makes everything look muted and calm.
I lie there for a moment, listening.
The house is silent. Dad has already left for the hospital. He usually does on Fridays. The faint hum of the heater is the only sound downstairs.
I reach for my phone. 6:48 a.m.
No messages.
I don't know why I check twice.
I push the covers back and step onto the hardwood floor. It's cold against my feet. I tie my hair into a loose bun and head to the bathroom first.
The mirror is slightly fogged from last night's shower. I turn on the tap and let the water warm before cupping it into my hands and splashing my face. Cleanser next. Slow circular motions over my cheeks, my jaw, the bridge of my nose. I take my time with it. Rinse. Pat dry with a soft towel.
Toothbrush. Mint foam. The small domestic rhythm of it grounds me. I study my reflection while I brush. My face looks rested. Neutral.
Just a girl getting ready for lectures. And work later.
I floss. Rinse again. Apply moisturizer. A light layer of sunscreen. Lip balm.
Simple.
Downstairs, the kitchen greets me with that faint coolness that lingers in empty houses. I open the fridge and take out what I need.
Sourdough. Avocado. Eggs. Lemon.
I slide the bread into the toaster and lean against the counter while it warms. My phone sits face down beside me.
When the toast pops up, I place it on a plate and cut the avocado open. Perfect green inside. I scoop it into a small bowl and press it gently with a fork, leaving some texture. Lemon juice. A pinch of salt. A few chili flakes between my fingers.
Water simmers in a small pot. I crack an egg into it carefully and watch the white gather around itself. I stand there longer than necessary, watching it form. There is something peaceful about focusing on something that simple.
I lift the egg out and place it on the avocado. The yolk trembles slightly.
Coffee next. Black. I like the bitterness in the morning. It wakes me up in a way sugar never does.
I sit by the window instead of at the table. The neighborhood is quiet. A car passes slowly down the street. Somewhere nearby, a dog barks once and then stops.
I cut into the toast and take a bite. The bread is warm. The avocado smooth. The egg soft and rich. It tastes clean. Balanced.
I eat slowly. I am not in a rush.
Today I have two lectures before work. No class with Celeste. Just normal courses. Then CeltaDel. Then dinner with Ava tonight.
I don't let myself linger on that thought too long.
When I finish, I rinse my plate and leave it to dry. I wipe the counter even though it does not need it.
Upstairs again.
I open my closet and pause for a second before choosing something simple but structured.
Brown tailored dress pants. The fabric is smooth and fitted perfectly at the waist. A beige sweater that sits softly against my collarbones, not oversized, not tight. Clean. Polished. Comfortable.
I put on delicate gold earrings. Nothing dramatic.
Back to my vanity. I brush my hair out and leave it down. It falls naturally over my shoulders. I apply mascara carefully. A touch of concealer. Light blush. Lip liner.
I look put together.
And that's how I like it.
I spray my usual Eclaire Lataffa perfume once at my wrists and once at my neck. The scent settles warm against my skin.
I grab my bag, laptop already inside, and head downstairs.
The house still feels quiet as I lock the door behind me.
My black Mercedes sits in the driveway, slightly dewy from the morning air. I slide into the driver's seat and start the engine. Soft music fills the car, low enough to think over.
University first.
Work after.
Dinner tonight.
It is Friday, but it is still a full day.
And for once, I feel steady walking into it.
Campus is already awake when I park.
Students move in clusters across the quad, coffee cups in hand, backpacks slung over one shoulder. The air is cool enough that I keep my jacket on as I walk toward the humanities building.
I like mornings on campus. They feel structured. Predictable. You know exactly where you are supposed to be and when.
My first lecture is Contemporary Ethics. I slip into my usual seat, third row from the front, slightly to the left. Close enough to focus. Far enough to observe.
Professor Langley is already writing on the board when I sit down.
"Today," she says without turning around, "we're discussing moral responsibility in positions of power."
The words settle strangely in my chest.
I open my notebook.
The lecture moves steadily. Case studies. Philosophical frameworks. The idea that authority does not remove accountability. That control does not equal immunity.
I take notes carefully. Not because I have to. Because I want to.
At one point, Professor Langley asks, "Is restraint always virtuous, or can it become avoidance?"
A few students shift in their seats.
I underline the question.
Restraint.
Avoidance.
I stare at the words a little longer than necessary before writing a small answer beneath them.
It depends on what you are trying not to feel.
I close my notebook at the end of class feeling strangely focused. Like my brain has been properly used.
My second lecture is Statistics. Less philosophical. More formulas. I move through it easily. Numbers calm me. They do not shift meaning depending on tone or silence.
Halfway through, my phone vibrates softly against the desk.
I smile slightly.
That sounds about right.
When class ends, I gather my things and head across campus toward the small cafƩ tucked beside the library. The one that always smells like espresso and cinnamon.
The bell above the door rings when I step inside.
Jade is already there, sitting at a small round table near the window. She waves me over dramatically, like she hasn't seen me in weeks instead of hours.
I order a matcha and sit down across from her.
She looks stressed but put together, like always.
"What happened?" I ask.
She exhales dramatically.
"My mother."
I laugh quietly. "That explains everything."
She rolls her eyes. "She's convinced I need to apply for internships now. Like immediately. She sent me a list this morning. Sixteen links. Sixteen."
"That's kind of impressive."
"It's terrifying," she corrects. "I don't even know what I want to do yet."
I watch her stir her drink even though it doesn't need stirring.
"It's normal," I say. "You're twenty-three. You're allowed not to have a five-year plan."
She studies me for a second.
"You sound very calm for someone who works for a literal control freak."
I look down at my coffee.
"She's not a control freak," I say automatically.
Jade raises an eyebrow.
I sigh. "She's just... precise."
"That's worse."
I can't help smiling.
"It's not like that," I say more quietly. "She just knows exactly what she wants. From everyone. From every room she walks into."
"And from you?"
The question lands gently, but it still lands.
I take a sip of my latte before answering.
"She doesn't have to say much," I admit. "It's more in how she looks at things. Like she's already calculated the outcome."
Jade leans back in her chair.
"That sounds exhausting."
"Sometimes," I say.
I do not tell her about elevators. Or silence. Or the way a single pause can feel like a sentence.
Instead I add, "She's not cruel. Just... controlled. I don't think she lets herself react first."
Jade studies me carefully now.
"And you?"
I shrug, but it feels too small of a movement.
"I notice."
The bell above the cafƩ door rings again as more students enter. The room fills with low chatter and the hiss of the espresso machine.
Jade checks the time.
"We have fifteen minutes before the last lecture."
I nod.
Normal Friday.
Nothing dramatic.
And yet something in me feels like it is waiting for the day to shift.
By the time I arrive at CeltaDel, the building is fully alive.
Phones ringing softly. The muted hum of printers. Assistants walking quickly but never running. Everything here moves with intention.
I settle at my desk, open my laptop, and begin sorting through the afternoon's schedule. There is a press release draft waiting for Celeste's review. Two interview confirmations. A note from PR about revised media placements.
I am halfway through responding when her office door opens.
I do not look up immediately. I feel it first.
Her steps are steady. Precise.
She stops beside my desk.
"Bring the Harper media notes," she says. "And come with me."
Her tone is calm. Direct. No wasted syllables.
"Yes."
I gather the folder. My fingers smooth the edges instinctively. I stand, falling into step just slightly behind her as we walk toward the elevators.
The hallway quiets as she passes. Not because anyone is told to stop speaking. It just happens.
The elevator ride down to the PR floor is silent. She stands with her hands lightly clasped in front of her. Eyes forward. Focused on something I cannot see.
I wonder briefly if she is thinking about the campaign. Or if she has already moved on to the next three things after it.
The doors open.
PR is brighter than the editorial floor. More glass. More movement. Screens displaying engagement numbers and press coverage metrics line one wall.
Mira stands near a long table covered in mockups and printed releases. She is explaining something to two junior associates when she notices us.
Her expression shifts almost immediately when she sees me.
Not exaggerated.
Just warmer.
"Hi," she says, stepping forward.
"Hi."
I hand her the folder. Our fingers brush again. This time more clearly accidental, but she does not pull away immediately. Neither do I.
Celeste steps fully into the room.
The air tightens.
Not tense. Just aware.
"Mira," Celeste says evenly. "Walk me through the revised positioning."
Mira straightens slightly. Professional mode. Confident.
She begins explaining the shift in tone for the Harper campaign, referencing audience response data and influencer alignment. She speaks well. Articulate. Quick.
I stand beside the table, reviewing the printed release. I make a small correction in pencil where a quote is slightly misattributed.
Mira notices.
"Good catch," she says quietly to me.
Celeste's eyes lift.
Only briefly.
Then back to the page in her hands.
"And the embargo timing?" Celeste asks.
"Moved to Monday morning," Mira replies. "It will hit at nine across all outlets."
"Too late," Celeste says calmly. "Move it to eight-thirty. I want momentum before the market opens."
Mira nods immediately. "Done."
There is no challenge in her voice. No hesitation.
But she steps closer to me again while adjusting the stack of papers.
"Can you send me the updated contact list after this?" she asks softly.
"Yes," I say.
She smiles. Small. Familiar.
Celeste closes the folder.
"Ivy."
Just my name.
"Yes."
"Schedule a follow-up with legal. I want final clearance before distribution."
"Of course."
She turns toward the door.
Meeting over.
No announcement. No dismissal.
Just a shift in her posture that signals it.
Mira's eyes flick to me once more as we leave. Something curious there. Not flirtation exactly. More interest.
The elevator doors close behind us.
This time the silence feels heavier.
Mirrors surround us on three sides. I catch our reflections multiplied. Her in black. Structured. Untouchable. Me beside her in beige and brown, softer edges.
I replay the room in my head.
The way Mira's tone softened around me.
The way Celeste interrupted without raising her voice.
The way she said my name.
The elevator hums as it rises.
Celeste checks her phone briefly. Her face reveals nothing.
I wait for her to say something.
Anything.
A correction. A comment. A directive.
Instead, she slips her phone back into her bag.
"You handled the revision quickly," she says at last.
The compliment is almost invisible.
"Thank you."
"That level of attention should be consistent."
"Yes."
The doors open to our floor.
She steps out first.
I follow.
We walk back down the hallway toward her office. The distance between us feels deliberate. Measured.
Just before she reaches her door, she stops.
"Have the legal draft on my desk before six," she says without turning.
"I will."
She enters her office.
The door closes softly behind her.
I return to my desk.
Everything looks the same as it did earlier. My screen. My notes. My coffee cup half empty.
But something inside me feels slightly unsettled.
Not because anything happened.
Because nothing did.
And somehow that feels louder.
The Harper draft is open on my screen. Legal notes lined up in neat bullet points. My coffee has gone cold but I drink it anyway.
Across the glass wall, Celeste moves inside her office. I can see her through the blinds now. She's standing, one hand resting lightly on the edge of her desk while she reads something. Her posture never bends. Even alone, she carries herself like someone is watching.
Maybe she is used to it.
Maybe she always assumes she is.
I look back at my screen.
At 3:19, the elevator opens.
Ava steps off, adjusting her bag on her shoulder, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. She scans the floor quickly before her eyes land on me.
There's something easy about the way she walks. No calculated precision. Just natural movement.
She drops her bag at her desk, then walks over to mine without hesitation.
"You look serious," she says quietly.
"I am serious."
"You're twenty-two."
"That doesn't cancel seriousness."
She smiles slightly at that and leans her hip against the edge of my desk.
"PR meeting over?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"And what?"
She studies me. Not invasive. Just observant.
"Nothing dramatic," I say before she can ask. "Campaign revisions. Timing changes. Legal clearance."
"Did she tear anyone apart?"
"No."
"Disappointing."
I almost smile.
Ava's eyes drift toward Celeste's office instinctively. The door is closed now. The light inside is still on.
"She's in there?" Ava asks quietly.
"Yes."
"Of course she is."
Ava straightens and runs her hand along the back of my chair absentmindedly.
"You're quiet," she says.
"I'm working."
"That's not what I meant."
I pause my typing.
"What do you mean?"
She tilts her head slightly.
"You get this look after you're in a room with her."
I don't answer immediately.
"What look?"
"Like you're replaying something."
The comment is gentle, not teasing.
I close the Harper document and turn my chair slightly toward her.
"It was normal," I say. "Mira went over press placement. Celeste corrected the embargo time. I took notes."
"That's it?"
"Yes."
Ava searches my face another second, then nods slowly.
"Okay."
There's no pressure in her response. She lets it go.
The office hums around us. Phones ring briefly and stop. Someone down the row laughs quietly. A printer spits out a stack of pages.
"Still on for tonight?" Ava asks, tone lighter now.
"Yes."
"Good."
"Where are we going?"
She smiles in a way that makes me immediately suspicious.
"You'll see."
"That's not fair."
"It is."
I shake my head.
"I need to know what to wear."
"Something you'd wear if you wanted to make an entrance."
"I don't make entrances."
Ava looks at me slowly.
"Yes, you do."
Before I can respond, Celeste's office door opens.
The shift on the floor is subtle but immediate.
Conversations soften. Movement slows just slightly.
Celeste steps out with a folder in hand. Black blouse. Tailored trousers. Everything clean-lined and exact.
She walks past a few desks, speaking briefly to someone from production. Her voice is low. Controlled. Even.
Then she turns slightly.
Her gaze passes over the floor.
Over Ava.
Over me.
She does not linger.
But she sees everything.
"Ivy," she says.
My back straightens automatically.
"Yes?"
"Have you finalized the legal draft?"
"Almost."
"Before six."
"Yes."
Her eyes hold mine for a fraction longer this time.
There is no irritation there.
No softness either.
Just assessment.
Then she turns and goes back into her office.
The door closes softly.
Ava exhales slowly.
"She doesn't blink," she murmurs.
I look down at my screen again.
"She does."
"I don't think I've seen it."
I ignore that.
I finish the draft carefully, attaching the updated files and double-checking every timestamp. At 5:43, I print the hard copy and walk it to Celeste's office.
I knock once.
"Come in."
She is seated again, glasses low on her nose as she reads through something else.
I place the document in front of her.
"Final draft."
She removes her glasses and sets them aside before taking the paper.
Silence fills the room as she reads.
The late afternoon light from the windows casts a warm tone over the edges of her desk, catching slightly in her hair.
She turns a page.
"Page three," she says calmly. "You adjusted the attribution."
"Yes."
"Good."
The word is quiet. Controlled.
But intentional.
"Thank you."
She finishes scanning the rest.
"Monday's call will require preparation over the weekend," she says. "I'll send notes."
"Okay."
She looks up then.
Directly at me.
There's something there. Something almost thoughtful.
Then it disappears.
"That will be all."
I nod once and leave.
When I return to my desk, Ava is packing her bag.
"Ready?" she asks.
"Yes."
I shut down my laptop and slide it into my bag.
As we walk toward the elevators together, I glance once toward Celeste's office.
The light is still on.
She hasn't left yet.
She rarely leaves first.
The house is warm when I walk in.
Not physically warmer. Just quieter in a different way than the office. The air smells faintly like laundry detergent and something savory, like Dad cooked earlier.
I slip off my heels by the door and carry my bag into the living room.
Dad is on the couch, sleeves rolled up, glasses low on his nose as he watches something on the TV. Some medical documentary, probably. He always says he watches them to "see what they get wrong."
He looks up when he hears me.
"There she is."
I smile automatically. It feels easier here.
"Hi."
"Come sit for a minute."
I hesitate for only a second before setting my bag down and walking over. I tuck my legs beneath me as I sit beside him.
"How was work?" he asks.
"Busy. Normal."
"Normal busy or CeltaDel busy?"
I laugh softly. "CeltaDel busy."
He nods knowingly.
"You're good at that," he says after a second.
"At what?"
"Handling pressure without acting like you're under it."
I don't know what to say to that.
"Sometimes I am under it," I admit quietly.
He glances at me.
"I know."
There's a small pause.
The TV continues murmuring in the background.
"I've been thinking," he says finally.
That tone makes me straighten slightly.
"About?"
"You."
My stomach flips immediately.
"Okay..."
He turns the volume down and fully faces me.
"You're twenty-two," he says. "You're working at one of the most competitive companies in the city. You drive yourself everywhere. You manage your own schedule."
I blink.
"Yes?"
"You've wanted your own space for a while."
I stare at him.
"Yes."
He exhales once, like he's been holding something in.
"So I bought you one."
The words land and just sit there.
"What?"
"An apartment."
I blink again.
"What?"
He smiles slightly now.
"A penthouse, technically."
My brain takes a second too long to process it.
"You're joking."
"I'm not."
"Dad."
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small set of keys, placing them in my hand.
"They're yours."
I stare down at them like they might disappear.
"You didn't have to-"
"I wanted to."
My chest tightens.
"Where?"
"Downtown. Good building. Security. Parking. You'll like it."
I laugh suddenly, a sound that feels almost too big for the room.
"You bought me a penthouse."
"Yes."
"Just like that."
"It wasn't just like that. I've been looking for months."
My eyes sting slightly.
"You didn't tell me."
"I wanted to surprise you."
I throw my arms around him without thinking.
He hugs me back immediately, strong and steady.
"You deserve your own space," he says quietly. "Not because you can't live here. Because you can."
That hits harder than I expect.
When I pull back, I'm smiling so hard my cheeks hurt.
"When can I see it?"
"Tomorrow. I cleared my schedule."
"You did?"
"Yes."
I laugh again, shaking my head.
"This is insane."
He studies my face carefully.
"You're happy."
"Of course I'm happy."
He nods once, satisfied.
"Good."
I lean back against the couch, keys still in my hand.
"I'm going out tonight," I say after a second. "With Ava."
"The one you've mentioned a few times?"
I pause slightly.
Have I mentioned her a few times?
"Yes."
He nods.
"She seems important."
I smile faintly at that.
"She's... steady."
"Steady is good."
I think about that.
About the way Ava leans on my desk.
About the way she watches me when I'm quiet.
About how she doesn't push but still sees things.
"She asks weird questions," I admit.
Dad smiles slightly.
"That usually means she's paying attention."
I look down at the keys again.
"Tomorrow," he says, standing up. "We'll go see your new place."
My new place.
The words feel unreal.
I stand too.
"I should get ready."
"For your entrance," he says casually.
I stare at him.
"How do you know about that?"
"I've raised you for twenty-two years."
I laugh and head upstairs.
And for once, my heart doesn't feel complicated.
It feels excited.
The house feels different now.
Lighter.
The keys to the apartment are still in my hand when I walk into my room. I set them carefully on my nightstand like they're something fragile. Something new.
A penthouse.
Mine.
I stare at the ceiling for a second and let it sink in. Then I smile to myself and head to the bathroom.
The shower water turns hot quickly. Steam fills the room, soft and thick. I step under it and close my eyes.
For a moment, I just stand there.
Work fades.
PR rooms fade.
Elevators fade.
It's just warm water running over my shoulders.
I wash my hair slowly, fingers working through the strands. Conditioner. Body wash. The scent is clean and light. I rinse carefully, like I'm resetting the day.
When I step out, the mirror is completely fogged.
I wrap myself in a towel and wipe a small circle clear with my palm.
My cheeks are flushed from the heat.
I smile at myself.
Not because of anyone.
Just because I feel good.
Back in my room, I plug in my speaker and scroll through my playlist.
Lana Del Rey starts playing softly. The intro slow and dreamy.
I move around the room barefoot while it plays.
Closet open.
I pull out the leopard print dress and hold it up in front of me. It's short. Fitted. Sexy.
I slip the dress on carefully. The fabric hugs my waist and skims over my hips perfectly. It makes me stand a little straighter without trying.
Leopard heels next. I set them on the floor and admire them for a second before sliding my feet in.
Back to the mirror.
Hair first.
I plug in my blow dryer and round brush, taking my time. Section by section. Pulling the strands smooth. Turning the brush slightly at the ends for that soft bounce. I flip my head once when I'm done and shake it out.
It falls exactly how I want it to.
Makeup.
I sit at my vanity and lean closer to the mirror.
Primer. Foundation blended carefully along my jaw. A touch of contour. Soft blush.
Then the smoky eye.
I take my time with it. Dark shadow along the lid. Blended slowly outward. Softening the edges. Mascara layered carefully until my lashes look fuller but not heavy.
I tilt my head slightly to check both sides.
Pretty.
Not overdone.
Just enough.
Lip liner always.
I spray my caramel vanilla perfume at my wrists, then press them lightly to my neck. The scent settles warm and sweet against my skin.
I put on the black fur jacket last.
When I step back and look at myself fully, something shifts.
I don't look like someone waiting to be chosen.
I look like someone arriving.
My phone buzzes on the bed.
Ava.
My heart lifts slightly.
Canlis.
That's not casual. That's real dinner. White tablecloths. City lights. Wine glasses that are too thin.
I grab my bag, slip my phone inside, and take one last look in the mirror.
I don't look cold.
I look excited.
I head downstairs carefully in my heels.
Dad looks up from the couch when I enter the living room.
He pauses.
"Well."
I laugh. "What?"
"You look like trouble."
"I'm not."
"Mm."
He stands and kisses the top of my head lightly.
"Be safe."
"I will."
I grab my keys and step outside.
The night air is cooler now. The sky dark blue, city lights already glowing in the distance.
I slide into my black Mercedes, adjust the mirror, and start the engine.
Lana is still playing softly as I pull out of the driveway.
For the first time all day, I'm not thinking about work.
I'm thinking about dinner.
About laughing.
About the future.
About the keys waiting on my nightstand.
I feel young.
And that feels good.
The drive into the city feels different at night.
Seattle doesn't sparkle. It glows.
The highway curves gently and the skyline comes into view slowly, buildings rising in dark shapes against a deep blue sky. Streetlights reflect in soft streaks across my windshield. My black Mercedes hums quietly beneath me, steady and smooth.
I turn the music down as I get closer. The rhythm of Lana fades into the background and the sound of the engine becomes clearer. My hands rest lightly on the steering wheel, nails catching the faint light from the dashboard.
I check my reflection in the rearview mirror at a red light.
Smokey eye still sharp. Hair smooth from the blowout. Lip gloss catching a bit of glow.
I look excited.
Not nervous.
Just... aware.
The GPS announces the final turn.
Canlis appears gradually as I drive up the hill. It doesn't scream for attention. It just sits there, glass and warm light, slightly elevated above the city below. The windows reveal silhouettes inside. Movement. Soft golden lighting.
I pull into the lot and park carefully, straightening the wheel before turning off the engine.
For a second, I sit there.
The city stretches below me. Distant headlights moving like slow constellations.
I exhale.
Then I step out.
The air is cooler than I expected. It brushes against my legs, sharp but refreshing. I close the car door softly and adjust my jacket over my shoulders.
My heels click against the pavement as I walk toward the entrance. The sound feels louder outside than it will inside.
Through the glass doors, I can see the host stand. Two staff members in black. Calm. Polished.
When I push the door open, warmth wraps around me instantly.
The scent inside is subtle. Wood polish. Wine. Something savory and rich from the kitchen.
The lighting is dim but intentional. Not dark. Just intimate.
The hostess looks up immediately.
Her eyes flick briefly over my outfit, assessing in a way that isn't rude but is practiced.
"Good evening," she says smoothly.
"Hi. Reservation under Ava Beaulieu."
She checks the tablet in front of her.
"Yes. Party of two."
She picks up two menus and gestures softly.
"Right this way."
I follow her through the dining room.
The carpet softens the sound of my heels. The murmur of conversations surrounds me. Glasses clink gently. A server passes carrying a tray with practiced balance.
We move past a couple seated close together, past a table of four dressed in tailored suits, past the bar area glowing warmly in the corner.
Then I see her.
Ava is seated near the windows, back straight, one hand resting lightly on the table as she scrolls briefly through her phone.
She looks up.
Sees me.
And smiles.
Not exaggerated.
Just genuine.
The hostess pulls out my chair.
"Enjoy your evening."
"Thank you."
I sit, smoothing my dress instinctively before placing my jacket over the back of the chair.
Ava stands and leans in for a hug.
"You look incredible," she says quietly near my ear.
"You look calm," I reply.
"I am calm."
We sit.
The table is set precisely. Silverware aligned perfectly. The candle flame steady. The city view behind Ava makes her silhouette look almost framed.
"This is unreal," I say softly, glancing toward the windows.
"I know."
She looks pleased with herself.
"I wanted a proper Friday."
"This counts."
The waiter approaches smoothly.
His voice is low and polished.
He describes the specials without rushing. Mentions the wine pairings. Points discreetly toward a featured cut of steak.
We order the bottle first. Cabernet. Then steak. Medium.
"Great choices," he says before stepping away.
I watch the room for a moment.
A woman across the restaurant adjusts her earrings in the reflection of her wine glass. A server replaces a fork because it's slightly misaligned. A couple near the window laughs softly and leans closer.
Everything here feels intentional.
Even the silence.
I look back at Ava.
She's watching me in a completely normal way. Not analyzing. Just present.
"Worth dressing up for?" she asks lightly.
"Definitely."
She smiles.
"Good."
The wine arrives and is poured smoothly. The red liquid catches the candlelight as it fills the glass.
We both lift our glasses at the same time without planning it.
"To not working," Ava says.
"To not working."
The glasses touch gently.
And for a moment, it feels simple.
The wine settles warm almost immediately.
Not heavy. Just enough to soften the edges of the week.
Ava takes a slow sip and glances around the room.
"I feel underdressed," she says.
"You are not."
"Look at that table," she whispers, nodding subtly toward a group in tailored suits. "They look like they're about to close a merger."
"Maybe they are."
"I should've brought a briefcase."
I laugh quietly.
"You'd lose it."
"True."
The waiter returns with our steaks. The plates are set down with quiet precision. The scent rises immediately. Pepper. Butter. Something rich and deep.
I cut into mine slowly. The knife slides through without resistance.
Pink center.
Perfect.
Ava watches my face carefully.
"Well?" she asks.
I take a bite.
"Oh."
She grins and takes one herself.
"Oh," she echoes.
We both laugh softly at how ridiculous we sound.
For a few minutes, we eat in comfortable silence. Not awkward. Just focused.
The candlelight flickers gently between us. Outside, headlights move slowly along the streets below. A boat's lights glide faintly across the dark water in the distance.
"This feels very grown up," I say quietly.
"It does," Ava agrees. "Like we should be talking about investments."
"I barely understand interest rates."
"Same."
She dabs her napkin lightly at the corner of her mouth.
"So," she says casually, "what are you doing tomorrow?"
I think about it.
"Nothing special."
"That's rare."
"Why?"
"You always look booked."
"I don't look booked."
"You do. Like your brain is."
I smile.
"That's just my face."
She narrows her eyes playfully.
"No, it's not."
I take another sip of wine.
"What about you?" I ask. "What's your exciting Saturday?"
"Laundry."
"That's tragic."
"It's real life."
"Fair."
She leans back slightly in her chair, stretching her shoulders.
"I'm glad we did this," she says. "Sometimes the week just blurs."
"It does."
"And then suddenly it's Monday again."
"Don't say that."
She laughs.
"Okay, okay."
I glance at her over my glass.
"Why Canlis, though?"
She shrugs lightly.
"I wanted somewhere quiet. Somewhere you can actually sit and talk."
"That's specific."
"Is it?"
"A little."
She smiles but doesn't elaborate.
I notice small things about her as we talk. The way she taps her fingers lightly against the stem of her wine glass when she's thinking. The way she tilts her head slightly when she listens. The way she doesn't interrupt.
It's easy sitting across from her.
"You're thinking again," she says suddenly.
"I am not."
"You are."
"About what?"
"Something."
I consider lying.
"I was just thinking this is nice," I say instead.
She smiles at that. A small, satisfied smile.
"It is."
There's a pause.
Comfortable.
Not empty.
A group near the bar laughs a little too loudly. A server moves past with a tray of desserts that smell faintly like caramel and chocolate.
Ava cuts another piece of steak and looks at me thoughtfully.
"I like hanging out with you, Ivy," she says lightly.
"So do I, Ava."
"I really mean it."
"I know."
She smiles.
"You look like you belong here."
The comment makes something shift inside me.
"Here?" I repeat.
"Places like this."
I glance around again. The polished tables. The city view. The low hum of conversations.
"Maybe I do," I say quietly.
"You do."
There's no weight in her tone. No implication.
Just simple agreement.
She reaches for her glass again.
And then-
She stops.
Her fingers freeze around the stem.
Her eyes lift slowly over my shoulder.
The shift is immediate.
Subtle.
But sharp.
I see it in her face.
"What?" I ask, a small laugh in my voice at first.
She doesn't answer.
Her jaw tightens just slightly.
"Ava?"
She exhales under her breath.
"Oh my God."
The warmth in my chest evaporates instantly.
I turn.
Slowly.
And the night changes.