Nathan Hale did not look at her.
That was the first thing Sophia noticed.
No greeting.
No nod.
No acknowledgment of any kind.
He walked past her desk like she was part of the furniture—efficient, distant, perfectly professional.
Cold.
Sophia stared after him, stunned.
"Oh," she muttered under her breath. "So that's how we're doing this now."
Fine.
She could do cold too.
The morning dragged on. Meetings. Emails. Deadlines. And Nathan—always present, always calm, always pretending she didn't exist.
It was impressive.
And irritating.
By mid-afternoon, Sophia was sent to retrieve archived photos and documents from the records room—the one everyone hated.
The cold storage room.
She grabbed her access card and headed down the narrow hallway, already regretting every life decision that led her there.
The door creaked open.
Cold air rushed out immediately.
"Of course," she whispered. "Why would it be warm?"
She stepped inside, hugging herself as she scanned the shelves stacked with boxes and folders.
Photographs. Case files. Evidence logs.
She moved deeper into the room—
And stopped.
Nathan stood at the far end, flipping through a folder, sleeves rolled down, expression unreadable.
Of all places.
They locked eyes.
For half a second, the world held its breath.
Then—
He looked away.
Just like that.
As if she were nothing.
Sophia's jaw clenched.
"You've got to be kidding me," she snapped.
He didn't react. Didn't even turn.
"I didn't know this room was reserved for ignoring people," she added sharply.
Still nothing.
She marched past him, grabbing a box harder than necessary.
"Relax," he said calmly, finally speaking. "I was here first."
She spun around.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Should I pretend you don't exist too?"
His gaze flicked to her—brief, cold, controlled.
"If that makes this easier," he replied flatly.
Her chest tightened.
Before she could respond—
Click.
The door slammed shut.
The lights flickered once… then steadied.
Silence.
Sophia turned slowly toward the door.
"No," she said softly. "No, no, no."
She rushed over and pulled the handle.
Nothing.
Locked.
"You've got to be joking," she hissed, banging once on the door. "Hello? Anyone?"
No answer.
She turned back to Nathan, fury blazing.
"This is your fault."
He raised an eyebrow. "Interesting theory."
"You were standing near the door!"
"And you were the one who walked in," he replied evenly.
She stared at him.
"I cannot believe this."
"Well," he said calmly, "we're trapped."
She wrapped her arms around herself.
"It's freezing."
"Yes," he agreed. "That tends to happen in cold storage."
She glared.
"You're enjoying this."
"No," he said. "I'm adapting."
She scoffed and leaned against a shelf.
"This is unbelievable. You ignore me all day, then we get locked in a freezer together."
"I didn't ignore you," he corrected. "I chose professionalism."
"By pretending I don't exist?"
"Yes."
She laughed sharply.
"You're impossible."
"Noted."
Silence fell between them.
Longer this time.
Then he spoke again, voice quieter.
"You're angry."
She looked away.
"Observation skills intact."
He hesitated, then surprised her.
"Tell me something," he said. "Something that has nothing to do with me. Or this place."
She frowned.
"Why?"
"Because we're stuck," he replied. "And because I want to hear it."
She studied his face—still calm, still guarded.
"…What do you want to know?"
"Your story," he said simply. "Why you became who you are."
She laughed softly.
"In a freezer?"
"Seems appropriate," he said. "Cold places make people honest."
She hesitated.
Then sighed.
"Fine," she said. "But if I freeze to death, I'm haunting you."
His lips twitched—barely.
"I'll take the risk."
She began to speak.
And for the first time since his release, Nathan Hale truly listened.
Not as a case.
Not as a consultant.
But as a man trapped in a room with a woman whose voice slowly warmed the cold.