It happened gradually, so gradually that Shen Yuqi didn't notice the exact moment it began.
There was no clear starting point. No decision. No conversation that marked a shift. Just a series of small adjustments that accumulated quietly, until one day she realized something had changed.
She arrived at the office at the usual time.
The lobby was neither crowded nor empty, suspended in that familiar in-between. She slowed near the elevators, checking her phone, already anticipating the brief wait.
The doors opened.
Li Wei was inside.
She stepped in without hesitation.
"Good morning," she said.
"Good morning."
The doors closed.
They stood side by side, not facing each other, not particularly close, but near enough that the silence between them felt intentional rather than awkward.
She noticed that he pressed the button for the higher floors first, then glanced briefly at the panel before adding her floor without being asked.
"Thank you," she said.
He nodded.
It was a small thing.
But it lingered.
The elevator rose. Someone else stepped in on a lower floor, then stepped out again. The space returned to quiet.
"Did you finish the report you were working on?" he asked.
She turned her head slightly, surprised—not by the question itself, but by the fact that he remembered.
"Yes," she replied. "I submitted it yesterday."
"I saw it," he said. "It was thorough."
She paused.
"Thank you."
He didn't respond immediately, and she thought the exchange might end there. Then he added, almost casually, "You're consistent."
She smiled faintly. "I try to be."
The elevator slowed at her floor.
She stepped out.
"Have a good day," he said.
"You too."
She walked down the hallway feeling oddly lighter.
The rest of the morning passed without incident. Work flowed easily, her mind focused, her movements efficient. She didn't think about him until lunchtime, when she found herself reaching the elevator just as the doors were closing.
She pressed the button.
The doors slid open again.
Li Wei stood inside.
"You made it," he said.
She laughed softly. "Barely."
She stepped in.
The doors closed.
She hadn't realized—until then—that she had expected to see him.
They descended together.
At the lobby, they exited side by side. Outside, the weather was mild, the air crisp but not cold.
"Are you heading out?" he asked.
"Yes," she replied. "Just to grab something quick."
"I was thinking of the same."
They walked toward the same café without commenting on it.
Inside, the line was short. They stood one behind the other, the space between them comfortable, familiar.
"What do you usually get?" he asked.
She glanced back. "The green tea."
He nodded. "I thought so."
She raised an eyebrow slightly. "You did?"
"You've ordered it every time I've seen you here," he said simply.
She laughed quietly. "I guess I'm predictable."
"Consistent," he corrected.
She smiled.
They ordered, waited, collected their drinks.
Outside, they stood for a moment, each holding a cup.
"I'll head back," she said.
"So will I."
They walked back toward the building together.
No rush. No need to fill the silence.
At the entrance, she slowed.
"I'll see you later," she said.
"Yes."
They separated.
That afternoon, she noticed something else.
When she stepped into the elevator, she found herself standing in the same spot she always did when he was there. Not intentionally—just out of habit.
When he entered after her, he took his usual place as well.
Neither of them commented on it.
They didn't need to.
The week continued in this way.
Sometimes they arrived at the same time.
Sometimes one waited without realizing it.
Sometimes they walked part of the way together, then split off without ceremony.
Their conversations remained brief, practical, and unforced.
"How was the meeting?"
"Long."
"Any progress?"
"Some."
Nothing personal. Nothing revealing.
And yet, there was a quiet understanding forming beneath it all.
On Thursday evening, they left at nearly the same time.
The lobby was dimmer than usual, the day's energy already drained. They stepped outside together.
"Are you taking the subway?" he asked.
"Yes."
They walked toward the entrance.
She noticed that he adjusted his pace slightly to match hers.
Not consciously. Just naturally.
At the stairs, she paused.
"This is me," she said.
He nodded. "Have a good night."
"You too."
She descended.
That night, as she sat at home reviewing documents for the next day, her brother leaned against the doorway.
"You've been coming home later," he observed.
She glanced up. "Have I?"
"Yeah," he said. "You seem busy."
"I am."
He shrugged. "Just don't forget to rest."
She smiled faintly. "I won't."
Later, lying in bed, she replayed the day in her mind—not in detail, just in impression.
The elevator.
The walk.
The shared silence.
She didn't attach meaning to any of it.
She didn't need to.
Friday arrived with a sudden downpour.
She stood under the awning at the building entrance, waiting, debating whether to risk it without an umbrella.
"Here."
She turned.
Li Wei held an umbrella out toward her.
She hesitated. "I don't want to inconvenience you."
"It's on the way," he said.
She accepted it.
"Thank you."
They walked together, the umbrella held between them, careful not to brush shoulders.
The rain drummed steadily above them.
"This weather came out of nowhere," she said.
"Yes," he replied. "It tends to do that."
They reached the subway entrance.
"I can take it from here," she said.
He nodded and released the umbrella.
"Bring it back whenever," he added.
"I will."
She descended the stairs, the umbrella still warm in her hand.
That weekend, she thought of him only once.
It happened while she was grocery shopping, standing in line, absentmindedly checking the time. For a brief moment, she expected to see him behind her.
She didn't.
The thought passed.
On Monday morning, she returned the umbrella.
She placed it neatly on his desk while he was in a meeting.
Later, she passed him in the hallway.
"Thank you for returning it," he said.
"Of course."
They continued walking.
By now, it felt natural.
Not close.
Not distant.
Just… aligned.
And that, Shen Yuqi realized, was how it started—not with intention or desire, but with shared moments that slowly learned how to fit together.