11. Ivy
IVY
J ack lingers in the doorway, shirt untucked like he hasn’t quite decided if he’s ready to leave. The light from the hall spills across his face, and for a moment I think he’s going to step back inside. Instead, he gives me that small, quiet nod of his, the kind that carries more weight than words.
“I’ll see you at the office,” he says softly.
I hug the blanket tighter around me, leaning against the frame of the couch. My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to. “Drive safe. Or… you know. Walk safe. Across the hall.”
The corner of his mouth curves, barely. “I’ll manage.” He hesitates, like he wants to add something else, then just reaches out, brushing his knuckles lightly against my cheek. It’s brief, but it still sets off a spark low in my chest.
“Jack…” I whisper, but the rest doesn’t come. I don’t even know what I was about to say. Stay. Don’t go. Don’t let this morning unravel into something I can’t carry.
He reads it anyway. His eyes soften, steady, patient. “Later.”
And then he’s gone, the door closing with a click that feels louder than it should.
I stand there for a beat too long, staring at the empty space where he’d been.
Then I drag myself up, fold the blanket, and head toward the shower.
The water’s hot, almost scalding, but it doesn’t burn away the feel of his hand around mine last night or the steady thrum of his heartbeat under my cheek.
By the time I’m dressed, black blouse, oversized blazer, the armor I keep for mornings like this, I’ve already run out of energy to look like I have it together.
I sip coffee that tastes like cardboard, swipe on concealer, and twist my hair into a bun that looks more severe than polished. It’ll have to do.
***
By the time I step into the office the next morning, something feels off.
I’m dressed in head-to-toe black, not the crisp, purposeful kind I wear when I want to feel in control, but the kind you throw on when you don’t want anyone to look too closely.
My blouse is loose, untucked at the hem, and my blazer’s a size too big, borrowed from the back of the closet.
I didn’t bother with lipstick, just concealer under my eyes and the same nude gloss I wear when I don’t have the energy to pretend I slept.
Even my heels feel loud today, like they’re announcing how unsteady I am with every step.
The energy in the office mirrors it. It’s more watchful.
Like everyone is waiting for something to shift.
The air buzzes with fluorescent light and the sterile stillness of a company not quite awake, but it’s something else too.
There’s a heaviness I can’t quite name. A subtle shift I try to dismiss, but it clings to everything, the guarded glances, the cautious footsteps, the undercurrent of something unspoken.
Maybe it’s the day. Maybe it’s me, dragging too much of last night into a place that only knows how to polish the surface.
I swipe my badge and step into the elevator. My reflection in the mirrored walls looks like someone I almost recognize, hair twisted into a bun, lips pressed together, posture too upright. A version of me built for endurance, not ease.
When the elevator doors open, I don’t head straight to my desk.
Instead, I duck into the bathroom. I lean against the sink, staring at my reflection.
I wet a paper towel, dab it beneath my eyes.
The concealer’s already caking. I smooth it out with a fingertip and pull in a breath that doesn’t quite reach my chest.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. A message from Sienna: Did you sleep?
I type: Barely. You okay?
Her reply is instant: You’re the one I’m worried about. Call me later.
I promise I will, even though I’m not sure when I’ll have the nerve to speak the things I still can’t quite name.
I walk slowly down the corridor toward my office, my heels clicking against the polished concrete.
I pass the marketing pod, nodding at a few team members who glance up but don’t say anything.
At my desk, I shrug off my coat, drape it over the back of my chair, and power on my monitor.
The screen’s glow feels too bright, too stark.
I blink against it and sip the coffee I picked up on the walk here, lukewarm now, bitter, but I swallow it anyway.
I’m barely settled when Brianna, our senior account manager, pokes her head into my office.
“Hey, just a heads-up, Jack moved the client pitch to noon instead of two. He wants your insight on the visuals, and he wants them... soon.”
I blink at her. “Okay. Thanks. I’ll pull the deck and adjust the copy.”
She smirks. “You’re a saint. I’d throw coffee at him.”
I give her a half-smile and sit down, pulling up the file. The logo stares back at me like it knows what kind of night I had.
I take a sip of coffee. My hand shakes as I reach for my mouse. I curse under my breath, shove my phone in the drawer, and try to focus.
Across the room, I hear Jack’s voice, measured, low, focused.
He’s on the phone, pacing behind the glass wall of his office.
I glance up and catch a flicker of him, shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, phone pressed to his ear, brow drawn.
He doesn’t glance over. I don’t have to see him to know he’s there.
I feel him in the air, like gravity pulling at the space between us.
Like the space between us is louder than words.
By the time the meeting starts, I’ve redone the presentation and even added a few new slides I hadn’t planned to. We file into the conference room, Jack, two junior execs, and me. He sits beside me. Too close.
Close enough that when he leans in to murmur, “Nice work on slide ten,” I catch the scent of his cologne and lose my next thought completely.
I turn my head slightly. “Thanks. You’ll make the interns cry if you rearrange another timeline last minute.”
He gives the faintest smile. “Noted.”
The lights dim slightly as the presentation begins. Jack starts us off with a confident, measured introduction. "Thank you all for coming. What we’re showing you today is more than a campaign, it’s a direction." His voice is calm, magnetic, deliberate. I watch the clients lean in.
When he clicks to slide three, he glances at me, and I take the cue.
“This concept centers on redefining legacy,” I say, standing and motioning to the screen. “Your brand is rooted in heritage, but your audience is looking for more than nostalgia. They want relevance. They want reflection.”
A woman near the head of the table nods. “You’re speaking our language.”
Slide ten, the one Jack praised, fills the screen. A split image of old-world craftsmanship juxtaposed with sleek modern packaging. It’s the one I almost deleted last night, thinking it might be too on-the-nose.
I keep going. “We’re not asking consumers to choose between trust and innovation. We’re giving them both.”
When I finish, there’s a brief pause. Then a man in a navy suit leans forward. “This is clean, smart, and it feels like us without sounding like everyone else.”
The rest of the meeting moves quickly. Questions, clarifications, Jack answering a few metrics queries with his usual steel-edged finesse.
When we wrap, Jack stands and offers his hand to the woman who first nodded. “We’ll follow up with the next-phase timeline by Monday.”
She smiles. “Looking forward to it.”
As they leave, I glance around the table. The interns are quietly exhaling. Jack meets my gaze and gives the smallest, most private nod. Like we just did something bigger than a pitch.
Back at my desk, I stare at my keyboard for a full minute before typing a single word, unsure whether I’m working or just trying to quiet everything swirling in my chest. Even with the meeting behind us, the tension sits in my chest like a held breath.
The image keeps looping in my mind, his hand on my jaw, steady and sure, the press of his mouth against mine, and the way his eyes searched my face like I was something he wanted and feared at the same time.
It wasn’t casual. It wasn’t confused. It felt deliberate.
Intimate. Charged with every word we hadn’t said out loud.
And now I’m here, acting like everything’s fine.
Like the walls between us haven’t already started to crumble.
I close my laptop. Just for a moment. I let my head fall into my hands and I let myself feel it.
But only for a second. Then I push back from my desk and head for the break room.
The fluorescent lights hum louder in there, somehow harsher than usual.
I pretend not to notice the two assistants who pause mid-conversation when I enter.
I pour myself another coffee, dark roast, no cream, just heat, and take a long sip like it might burn away the ache beneath my ribs.
I scroll through emails on my phone as I stir in sugar I won’t taste.
There’s a brand feedback loop that needs finessing, a media deck for next week’s campaign that’s somehow missing half its links, and a request from legal to review three lines of boilerplate that make my eyes blur.
I respond to all of them. Efficient. Precise. Unfeeling.
I catch my reflection again in the break-room microwave door, my bun is already loosening, strands slipping down around my face. I smooth them back without thinking, fingers trembling slightly. I’m not unraveling. I’m adjusting.
Back at my desk, I queue up a new project outline and lose myself in logistics. Timelines. Delivery dates. Vendor updates. Anything that doesn’t feel like memory.
But later, when I pause to refill my water bottle, I glance toward the hallway, toward Jack’s office.
His door is closed. His blinds drawn. He’s in there.
I know it. As I turn back toward my desk, I almost run straight into Noah, one of our junior creatives.
He’s holding a portfolio mock-up and looks startled to see me.
"Oh…sorry, Ivy," he says, stepping back.
"No harm done," I reply quickly, managing a small smile.
He hesitates. "You okay? You seem... kind of intense today."
I lift an eyebrow, keeping it light. "Is that your professional opinion, or just a caffeine-deprived observation?"
He chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. "Bit of both, maybe. We all kind of felt it today. Like something’s… off."
I nod, more to acknowledge his honesty than to agree. "Long night. But thanks for checking."
He shifts the portfolio in his arms. "You want to weigh in on the new layout before the three o’clock? I tweaked the typography and spacing like you suggested."
"Sure," I say, motioning toward the empty chair beside my desk. "Let’s take a look."
For the next ten minutes, we go over every detail of the mock-up, font sizes, kerning, color saturation, the tension between minimalism and personality.
I give feedback, he listens, and for a moment I’m exactly who I’m supposed to be: clear-eyed, capable, decisive.
Then he packs up, grateful, and I walk him to the edge of the pod, exchanging a few final notes before turning back.
I hover beside my desk a moment longer than necessary, then finally lower into my chair. I wonder if Jack can tell I’m not okay, no matter how hard I try to fake it. If he’s thinking about last night too. About what it meant.