Killian
He could still feel it. The press of her mouth against his cheek, soft and deliberate and absolutely not part of the plan.
Thirty minutes ago, he'd been standing outside a supply closet with his hand raised.
He'd lowered it. Raised it again. There were protocols for this. Scripts. Are you all right? Do you need to step out? Let's get HR. But none of it applied to what he'd seen—April frozen in the doorway, Chad's voice bright and performative and unembarrassed behind her.
The crying had hitched through the door and his stomach had turned in a way he didn't enjoy analyzing.
I'm her boss. And I'm standing here like it's mine to fix.
He'd let his hand fall and stayed where he was. Not knocking, not leaving.
And the cupcake. The way she'd tested something, discovered it wasn't what she needed, and moved on without ceremony. Something about that sequence had lodged in his chest and refused to leave.
The ring had surfaced later, uninvited. Not the box or the history—just the image of it on her hand, clear and inconvenient. He’d offered it to her and known his grandmother would have approved.
The elevator hummed between floors. His reflection stared back at him from brushed steel—tie straight, posture intact, every external signal reading normal.
Her lips on his cheek. The way she'd said thank you. His forehead against hers.
The doors opened. Killian straightened his cuffs.
Whatever this started as, he was already past pretense.