The next few days passed in a blur of meetings, papers, and fleeting moments that somehow felt different when he was around. I'd catch Zander watching me from across the office, his sharp eyes lingering a second too long, or notice him adjust something on my desk without a word. Little gestures—too small to be noticed by anyone else—but heavy with meaning.
One evening, I found myself walking beside him through the quiet streets after work. The city lights reflected off the wet pavement from an earlier drizzle, making everything feel intimate in a way that was neither planned nor expected.
"You walk fast," he remarked, hands tucked into his coat pockets.
"I like to keep up," I said, matching his pace. "Besides, someone has to make sure you don't get lost in thought and trip over your own feet."
He let out a short, dry laugh, but didn't look at me. His jaw was tight, and I realized he was holding himself back.
"You're very… bold," he said, his voice low.
I grinned. "You like it."
He paused mid-step, just long enough for my heart to catch. "I do," he admitted quietly, almost too softly to hear. Then he shook his head, a flicker of something unreadable passing across his face. "But not… too much. Not yet."
I blinked, caught off guard. "Not yet?"
He didn't answer, only adjusted the scarf around his neck and fell silent, letting the rhythm of our footsteps fill the space between us.
By the time we reached his car, I realized something. Zander wasn't pulling away from me entirely—not from our dinners, our walks, our shared quiet moments. He was pulling back from crossing a line he wasn't ready to admit he wanted to cross.
It was frustrating. And thrilling.
As I watched him buckle his seatbelt and start the engine, I thought about the subtle dance we were in—how every step forward was measured, how every glance carried unspoken rules. And despite myself, I smiled.
Because even with all the restraint, he was still here. And that was enough. For now.