Chapter 12 The Stillness
The past week had been the most creatively fulfilling of Leo’s entire life.
For the first time, he wasn’t just an employee; he was a conductor.
He spent his days in a whirlwind of collaborative energy, bouncing between designers and copywriters, protecting the fragile, chaotic heart of the Northwind project.
He was thriving, buzzing with a professional confidence that was so new and shiny it practically squeaked.
But as five o’clock rolled around on Friday, that confidence was still a costume he was terrified of taking off. Especially because Julian Thorne was still in the office.
The workday was officially over, but Julian remained at his desk, a monolith of focused energy, his brow furrowed as he reviewed a set of analytics.
The quiet hum of the office had shifted into the rustle of people packing up, the low murmur of weekend plans being made.
Leo was methodically tidying his own desk—a losing battle against entropy—while trying to look like he wasn't acutely aware of every move his boss made.
It was a delicate dance of feigned nonchalance and hyper-awareness.
“See you Monday, Leo!” Maya called out, shrugging on her coat.
“Have a good one!” he called back, forcing a relaxed grin. Just act normal. Normal people aren’t terrified of their incredibly handsome, intimidating bosses.
Then, the world outside went dark.
It wasn't the gentle dimming of twilight. It was as if someone had thrown a heavy, gray blanket over the sky. A low, ominous rumble vibrated through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Everyone paused.
“Was that… thunder?” David asked from across the room.
The answer came in the form of a flash of brilliant white light that illuminated the office in stark, photographic detail, followed an instant later by a crack of thunder so loud and close it rattled the glass in its frames.
And then, the heavens opened.
It wasn't rain. It was a solid wall of water, a biblical deluge that slammed against the windows with a deafening roar. The view of Starling Grove vanished, replaced by a churning, liquid gray.
The office, previously filled with the lazy energy of a departing workforce, erupted into a low-grade panic.
The frantic energy of a fire drill, but for weather.
People who had been casually strolling toward the elevators were now in a dead sprint.
Coats were yanked from hooks, bags were slung over shoulders, and a chorus of worried calls to loved ones filled the air.
“My car windows are down!” someone wailed.
“The bridge is going to flood for sure.”
Leo watched the chaos with a sense of detached amusement. He was a walker. His apartment was only fifteen minutes away, but in this downpour, he’d probably dissolve before he made it to the lobby. He was stuck.
Within five minutes, the stampede was over. The office was suddenly, eerily silent, save for the relentless drumming of rain against the glass. He looked around. Anya’s desk was empty. David’s chair was pushed back at an angle. Maya’s plant was the only sign of life on her desk.
Then he looked toward the glass-walled office at the corner of the floor. Julian was standing now, staring out at the maelstrom, his hands in the pockets of his perfectly tailored trousers. He looked less like a man watching a storm and more like a lighthouse keeper surveying his domain.
Realization dawned on Leo with a slow, sinking dread. Oh no. We’re the only ones left.
The professional confidence he’d been wearing all day evaporated, leaving him feeling exposed.
This wasn't work anymore. This was… a situation.
A forced proximity trope in the wild. His brain, which had been so sharp and creative all day, was now supplying him with a highlight reel of every awkward silence he had ever experienced.
Julian turned from the window, his gaze meeting Leo’s across the empty expanse of desks. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The sound of the storm filled the void, a wild, chaotic soundtrack to their sudden, shared isolation.
“It appears,” Julian said, his voice calm and even, cutting through the noise, “that we are temporarily stranded.”
“Yeah, looks like it,” Leo replied, his voice a little too high. “Good day to be a duck.”
Good day to be a duck? his inner critic screamed. Seriously? That’s the witty banter you’re going with?
Julian didn’t even blink. He simply walked out of his office and toward the small, sleek kitchenette at the far end of the floor. “Coffee?” he offered, his back already to Leo. It wasn’t a question so much as a statement of intent.
“Uh, sure. Thanks,” Leo said, following him like a lost duckling.
The office at night was a different beast. The harsh overhead lights were off, leaving only the soft, ambient glow from desk lamps and the city lights filtering through the rain-streaked windows.
It felt intimate. Private. The rain created a cozy, insulated bubble around them, separating them from the rest of the world. It was terrifying.
Julian moved with his usual economy of motion, operating the frighteningly complex espresso machine like a concert pianist. The hiss of steam and the scent of coffee filled the small space.
Leo just stood there, leaning against a counter, trying to think of something to say that wasn't about the weather or waterfowl.
“So… big storm,” he managed. Idiot.
“The forecast indicated a thirty percent chance of light showers,” Julian said, not looking up from his task. “An acceptable margin of error, I suppose. Though I’ll be having a word with my meteorology app’s developers.”
Leo couldn’t tell if he was joking. With Julian, it was a constant state of uncertainty. Julian handed him a mug. It was warm, the ceramic a comforting weight in his suddenly clammy hands. He took a sip. It was perfect, of course.
They stood in silence for another minute, the only sounds the rain and the soft hum of the servers from a nearby room.
The quiet was pressing in on Leo, demanding to be filled.
His professional confidence was useless here.
This was personal space, uncharted territory.
His anxiety was a buzzing hive in his chest.
Say something. Anything. Don’t just stand there like a ficus.
On a wild, reckless impulse, driven purely by the need to fill the silence with something other than his own nervous breathing, he heard himself say, “Hey, can I… can I show you something?”
Julian turned, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “Okay.”
Leo’s heart hammered against his ribs. Abort!
Abort! But it was too late. He was already pulling his tablet from his messenger bag, his hands feeling clumsy and disconnected from his brain.
This was a terrible idea. His work for V&S was a performance, a carefully curated illusion.
What he was about to show Julian was the opposite. It was real. It was him.
He navigated to a folder, his thumb hovering over it for a second too long. This is how you get fired, Hayes. Not for the lie, but for being terminally awkward. He took a breath and tapped the screen.
“It’s, uh, just a personal project,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “Something I do… for me.”
He turned the tablet toward Julian.
The screen glowed with an image that was a world away from the clean lines and muted palettes of V&S.
It was a digital painting, intricate and impossibly detailed.
It depicted a sprawling, fantastical city built within the branches of a colossal, luminous tree.
Tiny, glowing lanterns hung from walkways, and waterfalls cascaded from the highest limbs into shimmering pools below.
The color palette was rich and vibrant, full of deep blues, purples, and incandescent golds.
Julian was silent. He leaned in closer, his gaze sweeping over the details. Leo’s entire body was tense, braced for impact. He was waiting for the critique, for the polite dismissal, for the judgment.
“The light source is internal to the subject,” Julian observed, his voice quiet. It wasn’t a criticism, just a statement of fact.
“Yeah,” Leo said, his throat dry. “The city… it generates its own light. Its own life.” He swiped to the next image. This one was of a desert at night, but the dunes were made of swirling, iridescent nebulae, and constellations swam like fish through the dark, cosmic sands.
“This series,” Julian said, still studying the screen. “Does it have a name?”
“Hidden Worlds,” Leo breathed. The name felt heavy, too revealing, now that he’d said it aloud to this man.
He kept swiping. A library where the books were made of crystallized moonlight.
An underwater metropolis built inside a giant, translucent jellyfish.
Each image was a piece of his soul, a map of the places he went when the real world was too much.
They were intensely personal, deeply vulnerable.
Sharing them with Julian felt like standing naked in the middle of the office.
Julian didn’t offer any empty praise. He didn’t say “it’s beautiful” or “you’re so talented.” His compliments were questions, each one showing that he was truly looking.
“Why is the architecture here,” he pointed to the tree city, “so much more organic than here?” He pointed to the jellyfish city.
“Because the first one grew, it wasn’t built,” Leo found himself explaining, the words coming more easily now. “It’s a symbiotic relationship with the tree. The second one is an engineered marvel, a triumph against a hostile environment. One is about harmony, the other is about survival.”
Julian nodded slowly, processing this. He looked from the tablet to Leo, and for the first time, Leo felt like Julian was seeing past the chaotic employee, past the imposter. The look in his eyes wasn't skeptical or annoyed. It was… interested. Genuinely, intensely interested.
“They’re metaphors,” Julian stated, his voice soft.
Leo’s breath caught. He could only nod.
Julian handed the tablet back, his fingers brushing against Leo’s. A tiny spark of static, or maybe something else entirely, jumped between them. The rain continued to drum against the glass, a steady, soothing rhythm. The office was quiet and still.
Leo looked down at the glowing screen, at the hidden world he had created, and then back up at the man who had just seen it, who had understood it without needing a flowchart. He still felt vulnerable, exposed. But for the first time since he’d met Julian Thorne, he also felt seen.