Maya's breath caught the second she stepped into the suite not from fear, but from something softer. A surprise that settled in her chest and tugged at her throat.

 The space was small, almost modest, carved quietly into the edge of the building like a secret waiting to be discovered. The walls were a muted ash grey, smooth and seamless. The floor a dark wood, so polished it reflected the faint glow of lamp light. No overhead lights—just a couple of standing lamps with amber bulbs that gave off a sleepy, golden hue.

There wasn't much furniture. A small leather couch, clean and bare. A neatly folded throw blanket at one end. A chair angled near a fireplace that hadn't been lit. A few shelves. A desk pushed to the far corner with no clutter except a paperweight and a lined-up stack of books.

It wasn't messy. It wasn't luxurious.

It was lonely.

A room for one almost as if it was not built for living.

The only sign of life was the faint crease in the middle of the couch cushion, like someone sat there for hours in silence.

She didn't know what kept her rooted in place.

Maybe it was the faint shake in his hands. Or the strange quiet in the air around him, like even the room was holding its breath. He wasn't looking at her, just standing there, his palm braced on the counter like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Maya's heart thudded. Her ankle ached. The hour was late. She had no reason to stay.

But she didn't move.

"Sir," she said quietly, hands clutched in front of her. "I could—leave. If you'd prefer."

He didn't answer. Not even a glance in her direction.

Her voice grew even smaller. "But I... I'm not sure you should be alone like this."

His shoulders twitched.

And still, silence.

She took a single hesitant step forward. "If something happens again... and no one's here to help you..."

He lifted his head. Finally.

Their eyes met. And Maya felt it, the full weight of something wordless in his expression. Not frustration. Not command. But something... hollow. Cracked. And stunned by her.

His lips parted slightly, like he wanted to speak.

But nothing came out.

She swallowed hard, forcing her hands to stay still. "Please don't misunderstand Sir. I'll keep my distance. I just... I don't feel right leaving you like this."

Something changed in his gaze then.

He stared at her not like a boss. Not like someone evaluating his assistant.

He looked at her like she'd just said something that didn't exist in his world.

Kindness, maybe.

Trust.

She could see it in the slight crease between his brows. In the way his jaw clenched, not in anger, but in restraint.

He said nothing.

Not because he didn't want to.

But because he couldn't.

So, she moved to the couch slowly and sat, careful to tuck her injured ankle beneath her. Her posture was stiff, formal, but her hands trembled in her lap.

She wasn't relaxed.

She was terrified.

But she still stayed.

Across the room, he stood like a man haunted, the weight of her sincerity washing over him like an ache he couldn't fight. And yet...

He didn't ask her to leave.

Instead, after what felt like an eternity, he sat down in the armchair—not close, not casual—but near enough that the quiet between them was no longer cold.

He lowered his gaze. Hands laced. Shoulders still tense.

Still mute.

But he had stayed, too.

Maya lowered her eyes to her hands. Her heart was racing, and she didn't know why she felt so close to tears. Maybe because she hadn't done anything special. Just told the truth. Just chosen to stay.

She curled into the corner of the couch. Her body was tense, posture too polite, as though even sitting felt like a privilege she wasn't sure she deserved.

Richard watched her from his armchair, jaw taut.

Her dress still shimmered faintly under the low lighting of his suite, but it looked... stiff now. Uncomfortable. She kept tugging at the neckline in small, unthinking motions, shifting her arms like the sleeves were too tight.

He didn't mean to notice.

But he did.

Her discomfort threaded beneath his skin like a low, crawling current. He hated it.

"I have something you can change into," he said, voice rougher than usual. He didn't look at her when he spoke. "The bathroom's down the hall."

Maya blinked up at him, startled. "Oh—sir, that's not necessary, I can—"

"You said you'd stay," he interrupted, quiet but firm. "You might as well be comfortable."

He rose without waiting for her to argue again and disappeared into the darker corner of the room. A few moments later, he returned and placed a folded bundle on the arm of the couch—one of his sweaters, black and soft-looking, and a pair of joggers drawn in at the waist with a tie.

"Thank you," she murmured, barely meeting his gaze.

He nodded once and gestured toward the hall. "Bathroom's on the left."

She took the clothes with careful fingers, brushing past him on her way. He didn't move until the bathroom door closed quietly behind her.

Only then did he let out a breath.

He didn't know why this was so hard. Why the idea of her leaving had felt wrong. Why watching her try to stay upright in heels and pain was unbearable. Why everything about this night clawed against his carefully kept distance.

He should be used to pain. It was the only thing that had stayed with him all these years.

But now her sincerity, her quiet presence, the way she wasn't affected, it was breaking something open.

And he didn't know what to do with it.

In the bathroom, Maya locked the door and stood still for a moment.

The silence hummed here too, but it was softer. The lighting above the mirror was dim. The room was neat—like everything else—but not sterile. A single cracked tile stretched across the sink backsplash, and the mirror above it was fractured in one jagged corner. The break cut across the reflection like a scar.

She didn't ask.

She just looked at it, lips parting slightly.

She didn't want to imagine how it got there.

She changed quickly, folding her gown over the counter and stepping into the joggers with care. The sweater was too big on her—it fell just below her thighs and swallowed her wrists whole—but it smelled clean and warm. Like cedar. Like cold air and something faintly like citrus.

Like him.

She caught her reflection again as she passed the mirror. Her hair was damp from the quick shower she'd taken to rinse off her makeup and the tension of the night, clinging gently to her face and neck. The sleeves of the sweater had fallen again, and she tugged them up as she stepped back into the hall.

Richard was still seated.

But he looked up the moment she entered.

And something flickered across his face.

He didn't mean to stare. But he did.

The sight of her—barefoot, damp hair falling softly down her back, his sweater nearly swallowing her frame did something to him. A pull. Gentle and wrong in all the ways that mattered.

It was the image of something fragile. Something human. And he hadn't felt this kind of ache ever.

She noticed the shift in his eyes and froze.

"I—I didn't mean to look so..." she trailed off, tugging at the hem of the sweater.

"You look okay." he said, the words slipping out low and quiet.

Maya's eyes snapped to his. Wide. Unsure.

He cleared his throat a second later and turned away.

Silence bloomed again.

She curled back onto the couch, this time pulling her knees beneath her and hugging the sleeves close. He watched her from the corner of his eye, careful not to look too long.

Maya looked down at her lap. Her fingers twisted nervously.

Then, hesitantly, "Sir?"

He glanced at her.

"Earlier... at the gala, you looked a little sick and just now... I thought maybe..." She trailed off, biting her lower lip. "Can I—check your temperature?"

Richard's eyes didn't move from hers. She felt foolish the second the words left her mouth.

"I mean—only if you're okay with that," she added quickly, cheeks warming. "Just... with my hand."

He didn't speak.

But after a long pause, he gave a single nod, he didn't know why he agreed.

Permission.

That was all she needed.

Maya rose slowly, padding toward him in the oversized sweater and joggers. She stopped in front of where he sat in the armchair, tension stiff in her limbs.

He tilted his head slightly back to meet her eyes.

She raised her hand—tentative, trembling—and pressed her palm gently to his forehead.

Her hand was small and cool against his skin.

He was still warm. But not like earlier. This was a different heat.

Their eyes locked.

She looked down at him, her brows knit with gentle worry. He looked up, jaw tight, but unmoving.

Her fingers brushed softly over his temple, checking again.

And then time stilled.

Richard didn't breathe for a moment. He couldn't.

He had never noticed—truly noticed—how delicate her features were. The slant of her brows, the curve of her mouth, the faint flush in her cheeks from the warmth of the room.

Her hair framed her face like a halo, still slightly damp. The sweater hung too large on her shoulders. And yet she looked—

Beautiful.

And something inside him twisted, sharp and aching.

Maya didn't speak.

She saw it too—though she didn't know what it meant. Only that he had the saddest eyes she'd ever seen. Dark. Heavy. Quiet. Like they were always waiting for something that never came.

Their breaths mingled.

Her heart beat loud in her ears.

Then Richard's hand gripped the armrest. He shifted—barely—but enough to pull back from her touch.

The moment cracked.

Maya blinked, her hand lowering quickly.

"I—I'm sorry Sir," she whispered, stepping back. "You're not hot. I mean—you are. Not. You're fine."

He didn't answer.

And she didn't know what made her heart race more—his silence, or the memory of the way he'd looked at her.

The silence held after that, but it was different now. Not heavy. Not filled with the sharp edges of fear or formality. Just... cautious quiet.

Richard leaned his head back, eyes on the ceiling, letting the tension slowly drain from his body.

Maya rested her head against the armrest of the couch, damp hair brushing the velvet. Her eyes fluttered shut without meaning to.

He watched her breathing even out.

Something inside him tightened.

He didn't understand this—this need to make sure she was still breathing. This pull toward warmth. Toward her.

He didn't know when she'd started becoming an anchor in the quiet.

But she had.

And he wasn't ready for that.

Not even a little.

Still, he didn't move from his seat.

And she didn't wake.

They stayed like that, the room wrapped in soft firelight and long-held tension, the pull between them growing in the hush.