Chapter 9
Before I knew his name, I knew his rhythm.
We never really spoke.
A nod. A half-smile. An echo of something that felt safe.
After Blake left, I started noticing things I never had before. The way the office hummed like a beehive, everyone pretending they weren’t starving for something real. The way the light hit his shoulders when he leaned over the mail cart. The way he noticed when I forgot to eat lunch.
One afternoon, he left a coffee on my desk. No name, no note, just a cup with “For when words don’t help” scrawled across the side in black marker.
I almost cried over that stupid cup.
The next day, he caught me watching him.
“Too strong?” he asked, nodding toward the coffee.
“Too kind,” I said.
He smiled, soft. “Guess I overdid it, then.”
His voice wasn’t slick or cocky. Just warm. The kind of voice that could coax light into a dark room.
Later that week, he found me in the lift, late, tired, mascara bleeding regret.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Do I look okay?” I laughed, but it cracked like glass.
He didn’t flinch. “You look like you’re holding your breath underwater.”
“Maybe I am.”
“Then breathe. It’s allowed, you know.”
I nodded. Didn’t mean to. But I did.
When the doors slid open, he didn’t move.
“Hey,” he said softly. “If you ever need someone to listen and not fix—”
He paused, searching for the right words.
“I’m decent at silence. Been practicing it most of my life.”
Something about that lodged in me.
Decent at silence.
God, I was drowning in it.
The next morning, a sticky note was on my keyboard.
“Eat. You forget when you’re sad.”
And for the first time in weeks, I actually smiled.
The next morning, a sticky note was on my keyboard.
“Eat. You forget when you’re sad.”
And for the first time in weeks, I actually smiled.
By the time he showed up at my office door a few days later, I’d started looking forward to that sound the faint hum, the rustle of envelopes, the shadow that paused just long enough to make me feel seen.
I didn’t know his name.
But I knew the way he made the air shift.
Like the world wasn’t all sharp edges and endings.
Hours moved into days and days into weeks. It’s hard to believe how the seconds have bled into minutes, the minutes bleed into days and those days into weeks and yet I still feel the deep ache, the breath-taking pain of losing what I thought was a forever thing.
The stairwell had become my sanctuary.
A concrete cocoon between floors where the office noise couldn’t reach me where I could breathe without someone asking if I was okay.
I sat on the cold step, knees tucked up, phone glowing in my hand.
The dating app was a parade of faces and empty lines. Smirking men holding fish. Bathroom mirror selfies with motivational quotes. Bios that said things like “Just a good guy looking for my forever girl” or “Swipe right if you love adventure.”
I didn’t even know why I was there.
Maybe because I wanted to feel something again.
Maybe because it was easier to scroll through strangers than face the echo of my own loneliness.
A message pinged.
Hey gorgeous, bet you look even better without that frown ??
I exhaled through my nose, half a laugh, half disgust. Another followed almost immediately.
You into hiking? Or just emotional damage? Lol.
I shut the screen off and stared at my reflection in the black glass.
Apparently, I was the kind of woman who hid in stairwells to avoid her life.
The hum came next.
Soft. Familiar.
I didn’t even have to look up to know it was him.
He appeared at the landing above me, mailbag slung over his shoulder, pausing like he wasn’t sure whether to interrupt.
“Didn’t mean to crash your… whatever this is,” he said, voice low, hesitant.
“It’s called hiding,” I muttered, brushing a thumb across my screen. “Highly effective. Ten out of ten, would recommend.”
He took a slow step down, his shoes quiet against the concrete. “From co-workers or the world in general?”
“Both,” I said. “But mostly people who ask too many questions.”
He smiled softly. “Noted.”
For a second, I thought he’d keep going, but he didn’t. He sat a few steps below me, elbows resting on his knees, keeping just enough distance to make it feel safe.
He nodded toward the phone in my hand. “You look like you’re about to throw that thing down the stairwell.”
“I’ve considered it.”
“Bad news?”
“Worse. Dating apps.”
He winced theatrically. “Ah. The seventh circle of modern hell.”
That made me laugh quiet, unexpected.
“Exactly.” I unlocked the screen again, scrolling through another profile. “Look at this guy. He’s holding a fish. Why are there always fish?”
“Proof of survival, maybe.”
“Proof of ego, definitely.”
He chuckled. “What’s his bio say?”
I read aloud, “‘Looking for a woman who can cook, clean, and keep up in bed.’”
He made a low whistle. “Ambitious.”
“Delusional,” I corrected.
His eyes flicked to me, glinting with that quiet mischief. “So, this is what you do on your breaks? Swipe through the male species and judge their fishing trophies?”
I shot him a look. “Not exactly.”
His eyebrow quirked up, playful. “Oh? Doing research?”
Heat climbed my throat before I could stop it. “Actually, yeah. I am.”
That got his attention. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope.” I tilted the screen toward him. “It’s for work. This month’s feature—an article on catfishing, dating apps, online lies, and all the other fun digital disasters people call connection.”
He leaned back slightly, amusement flickering. “So, you’re what… undercover?”
“Something like that,” I said, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m not here looking for love. Just lies.”
He grinned, slow. “You sure you’re not looking for a little of both?”
My cheeks flamed. “Pretty sure.”
He hummed low, unconvinced. “Mm. Maybe I’ll reserve judgment until I read your expose.”
“You’ll have to buy a copy.”
He gave a mock gasp. “What, no insider preview? Harsh.”
“Integrity,” I said with a smirk. “Look it up.”
His laugh echoed softly through the stairwell, wrapping around the concrete like warmth. For a moment, everything felt lighter—less lonely.
It was just us and the hum of pipes and the quiet rhythm of our breathing.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a slightly squashed chocolate bar, held it up between two fingers. “Trade? You give me the phone before you break it, and I give you this.”
I hesitated, then handed it over. “You bribing me with sugar now?”
He smiled. “Desperate times.”
I took the chocolate, tearing off the wrapper. “You always carry emergency rations?”
“Only when I see someone who looks like they forgot sweetness exists.”
The words hit deeper than he knew.
He stood after a moment, brushing his hands against his jeans. His fingers moved fast something typed, a soft click and he handed it back.
“Now you’ve got my number,” he said. “In case you ever need someone to just listen and not fix things.”
He gave me that same soft, crooked smile. “Or laugh at these right jock straps that are sliding into your DMs”
I blinked down at my phone. Dane.
“I don’t know your name,” I said quietly, though I did now.
He paused at the door. “Yeah, you do.” A beat. “Dane. We went to school together. You probably don’t remember.”
My breath caught. I didn’t. Not fully. Did I? No, I did.. shit I’m not sure. Just fragments, maybe the kind of half-memories that feel like dreams you wake up from too soon.
He smiled again, smaller this time. “See you around, Penn.”
The door swung shut behind him, leaving the stairwell dim and still.
And I sat there, chocolate melting in my hand, his name glowing on my screen, and for the first time in months, the silence didn’t feel so heavy.
It felt like an invitation.
Walking back up the stairs after he leaves I whisper slightly Back to the real world and as I walk down towards my office pressing my hands on the door
Carrie’s there, perched on the edge of my desk like she owns the place.
Her heels are weapons. Her perfume could start wars.
“Finally,” she says, clapping once. “You ghosted your own office.”
“Had to breathe,” I reply, setting my bag down.
She eyes me, head tilting. “You look flushed. Don’t tell me you met someone interesting in the stairwell.”
I ignore the jab, moving around her to my chair. “You need something?” The exhaustion settles deep in my bones, heavy and unmoving.
“I’m an efficient boss, ruler of this kingdom.” Her grin sharpens before her head tips back in a laugh, trying so damn hard to bait me out of the dark, moody cloud I’ve become.
“Not funny?” she asks, one brow arched.
“Not in the slightest.”
I bite back at her, a small, crooked smile tugging at the corner of my lips.
She slides off my desk with a triumphant hum. “Ha! Seen it — a slight tug of a grin. That’s one for boss, zero for sadness. Job done. See you later, editor.”
She winks and sweeps out of my office, the echo of her heels clicking down the hall.
When the door shuts behind her, the quiet hums back to life. I exhale, fingertips grazing the edge of my laptop.
I think of Dane—the warmth in his voice, laughter thick and sweet like melted chocolate.
And Blake—the ghost behind the glass, smiling for strangers while his eyes told a different story.
The world keeps spinning.
But inside, something shifts — a pulse, a thread, the faintest spark of truth I’m still too afraid to name.
I start to type, folded in silence, with the taste of dark chocolate still kissing my lips.
That night, the silence followed me home.
I showered, washed off the day, and stood in front of the mirror, towel around my body, steam curling around my reflection. My skin looked dull, tired. My eyes flat. The kind of eyes that had seen too much and learned to stay quiet about it.
When I wiped the glass, I didn’t see the woman I used to be.
The version of me who laughed easily, who built dreams from scraps and believed in forever.
All I saw was the after.
I padded to my bed, oversized tee clinging to damp skin, hair dripping onto the pillow. My phone sat there like temptation.
I unlocked it. Scrolled past the app. Past the messages I didn’t want to read.
Stopped on one name.
Dane.
No messages exchanged. Just his number glowing back at me like a promise I didn’t know how to keep.
I typed—then deleted.
Thank you.
You didn’t have to do that.
Who were you in school?
Why do I feel like I know you and don’t at the same time?
Delete. Delete. Delete.
The cursor blinked in the empty message box, patient and forgiving.
I turned off the screen and let it fall to the sheets beside me.