Diamant's POV
Workdays were supposed to be predictable.
Meetings. Reports. Signatures. Problems that could be solved with numbers, negotiation, or pressure.
But nothing about the past few days had been predictable.
And nothing about Noah had returned to normal.
I noticed it in the smallest ways first.
The way he stopped greeting me properly in the mornings.
The way he no longer lingered in doorways like he used to, pretending he had "just come to check something" when clearly he wanted an excuse to stay in the same space.
The way his voice had lost its ease.
Now, even silence between us felt structured. Deliberate. Like two people carefully avoiding stepping on something fragile on the floor.
This morning, he got into the car first.
That alone was enough to tell me things were off.
Noah always waited for me.
Not out of necessity.
Out of habit.
I got in beside him.
He didn't look at me immediately.
Instead, he stared out the window, hands resting on his lap in that same controlled stillness I had seen too many times lately.
The driver started the engine.
Noah spoke first.
"I don't need to come to the office every day, right?"
I turned slightly toward him.
"You've been coming for months."
"That's not an answer."
"It is," I replied calmly.
He finally looked at me then.
There it was again.
That guarded expression.
Not quite fear.
Not quite resentment.
Something in between that refused to settle.
"I just… feel like I'm in the way sometimes," he said.
That made me pause.
I studied him.
"You're not."
He gave a short laugh, but it wasn't amused. "You say that easily."
"I don't say things I don't mean."
A beat.
Noah looked away again.
"That's not what I've been thinking," he murmured.
I narrowed my eyes slightly. "What have you been thinking?"
He hesitated.
Too long.
Then shook his head. "Nothing important."
I leaned back into the seat.
That was becoming his favorite word lately.
Nothing.
It always meant something.
The office building greeted us with its usual controlled chaos.
Workdays in Reed Enterprises were never loud.
They were precise.
The kind of quiet that wasn't empty, but controlled—like the entire building had learned how to breathe in sync with its owner.
Glass walls divided floors like invisible hierarchies. Assistants moved without hesitation.
Security scanners blinked softly at every access point.
Every corridor carried the faint echo of shoes on marble and ambition wrapped in expensive silence.
People didn't just work here.
They functioned.
And today, Noah was out of rhythm.
He walked a step behind me as we entered the building. Not beside. Not ahead. Behind like he was trying to reduce his presence without actually disappearing.
The elevator ride was quiet.
Too quiet.
Even for him.
Noah stared at the floor indicator lights as if they held answers he didn't want to ask me directly.
"You've been quiet lately," I said finally.
"I'm always quiet," he replied quickly.
That wasn't true.
Not for him.
The elevator chimed softly as we reached the executive floor. The doors slid open into glass-walled corridors overlooking the city.
Everything here was designed to remind people how small they were.
Noah stepped out first.
He hesitated.
Then spoke, without turning fully toward me.
"Do you ever feel like… you're doing too much for people who didn't ask for it?"
I stopped walking.
The question didn't belong here.
Not in this hallway.
Not in this building.
I studied him.
"You're thinking again," I said.
"That's not an answer."
"It is," I replied calmly.
He exhaled, frustrated—but not at me. At whatever was inside his own head.
We didn't continue the conversation.
Because we both understood something unspoken:
This wasn't a place for emotional conversations.
Not like this.
The meeting started shortly after.
Reports. Projections. Expansion charts glowing across a massive screen.
Everything predictable.
Everything safe.
But Noah wasn't fully here.
I saw it in the smallest details.
The way his pen hovered too long before touching paper.
The way his gaze paused slightly too long on nothing.
The way he responded half a second too late.
And then—
"Do you think people can change without realizing it?" Noah asked suddenly.
The room went still.
Executives glanced between us.
I didn't react outwardly.
But I did notice how Noah immediately regretted speaking.
I closed my folder.
"Meetings are for business," I said evenly.
A pause.
Then I added, softer:
"But yes. People change when they stop noticing themselves."
That seemed to settle the room again.
But not him.
Noah leaned back slightly, eyes distant.
Like that answer had only made things worse.
After the meeting, the corridor felt longer than usual.
"Do you ever regret how you do things?" Noah spoke.
I glanced at him.
"Explain" I said.
"I mean... controling situations so tightly", he said slowly. "Making decisions for people. Not giving them space to choose."
I didn't answer immediately.
Then I said, "People like structure. They just pretend they don't."
Noah frowned slightly.
"That's not what I meant."
I turned my head a little.
Now I was watching him properly.
He avoided my gaze again.
There it was.
The pattern.
Avoid. Question. Retreat.
People passed us quietly, pretending not to listen, not to notice.
Noah walked beside me now.
Still not fully beside me.
Just close enough to pretend.
Then he spoke again.
"I think I've been thinking too much lately."
I glanced at him.
"That's not new."
He gave a faint, humorless smile.
"It feels different."
That made me slow my steps slightly.
Different how?
But I didn't ask.
Because I already knew Noah well enough to understand:
If he wanted to tell me, he would.
If he didn't, pushing would only make him retreat further.
We reached my office.
I didn't sit immediately.
Instead, I stood by the window for a moment, looking down at the city.
Then
My thoughts drifted.
Uninvited.
Three months ago.
A hospital room.
A quiet announcement that changed nothing and everything at once.
Noah never spoke about it again.
Not once.
Not directly.
Not even in passing.
And I hadn't either.
Not because I didn't care.
Because I didn't know how to touch something that fragile without breaking it further.
I exhaled slowly.
"Why are you so restless lately?" I asked without turning.
Silence.
Then Noah's voice, smaller than usual.
"I don't know."
But that wasn't true.
I finally turned to him.
He wasn't looking at me.
That was the answer.
Later.
I called him into my office.
Not as a request.
A quiet command.
He came in slower than usual.
Cautious.
Like he didn't know what version of me he was going to meet.
I closed the door.
And for once.
I didn't start with control.
I started with honesty.
"Noah," I said quietly, "you've been distant."
He looked at me immediately.
"I'm fine."
That answer again.
Always that answer.
I walked closer.
Stopped in front of him.
For a moment, I didn't speak.
Then.
I pulled him into my arms.
He froze.
Completely.
Not resisting. Not responding.
Just still.
"I know something's been bothering you," I said quietly. "And I don't think it's only work."
A pause.
Then, softer:
"Is it… the baby?"
That did it.
His body broke before his voice did.
A sharp inhale.
Then silence that stretched too long.
When he finally spoke, it wasn't what I expected.
"I never even talked about it," he said, voice shaking slightly. "Because I didn't want to make it heavier for you."
That hit harder than anything else.
I tightened my arms around him.
"You don't carry things alone in silence," I said.
He didn't answer.
But I felt it then.
The way he finally let go of something he had been holding for months.
Not loud grief.
Just release.
Noah's POV
I didn't expect him to say that.
Or do that.
Or even notice.
Because I had gotten very good at pretending.
At acting normal.
At swallowing thoughts before they became words.
I thought if I didn't speak about it—
It would hurt less.
But I think it just stayed.
Somewhere under everything.
Quiet.
Waiting.
"I didn't want you to think about it," I said finally, my voice low. "It happened so fast… I thought maybe if I didn't bring it up—"
"You were wrong," he interrupted gently.
Not harsh.
Just certain.
That made it worse.
Because I realized—
He had thought about it too.
All this time.
I pressed my forehead slightly against his chest without meaning to.
And for once, I didn't argue.
Later that night
We didn't talk much after that.
At home, I barely touched my food.
"I'm not hungry," I said.
"That's not an answer," he replied automatically.
A faint pause.
Then he added, softer
"…But I won't force you."
We went to bed early.
He lay behind me.
Not tight.
Not restrictive.
Just there.
Present.
Still awake.
I knew because he always stayed awake a little longer than he admitted.
"I think about it sometimes," he said suddenly into the dark.
I didn't turn.
"Me too," I admitted.
Silence.
Then his voice again.
"Sometimes I wonder what things would've been like."
I didn't answer immediately.
Because I didn't have a clean answer.
So I just said
"We'll be okay."
A pause.
Then, quieter
"And if the time ever comes… we can try again."
I didn't respond.
But I didn't disagree either.
And in the dark—
I realized something simple.
We weren't grieving a child we knew.
We were grieving a future we never got to meet.
And somehow…
That still hurt.