The office had settled into a rhythm. Phones rang steadily, emails pinged endlessly, and the smell of coffee was constant, almost a comfort.
Robert was working with her on Julian Becker's campaign, which meant they were spending more time together than was strictly necessary.
She found herself noticing small things again — the way he tilted his head when reading a report, the faint crease in his brow when he was concentrating, the careful way he sorted documents before meetings as though precision was a kind of calm.
They worked seamlessly, anticipating each other's moves. A glance, and she knew which chart he wanted. A sigh, and he understood the piece of information she was searching for.
It should have been purely professional. And it was, on the surface. But there was something in the air — a quiet electricity she couldn't name.
During one long afternoon reviewing client slides, she looked up and caught him smirking at something she'd scribbled in the margins.
"What?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Nothing," he said, voice low, amused. "Just that your notes make me sound smarter than I am."
She shook her head, smiling faintly. "You wish."
And just like that, the tension between them shifted — warm, familiar, yet never crossing the line.
Robert
He had to remind himself constantly to keep things professional. He couldn't — wouldn't — risk overstepping.
But it was hard.
Being near her, working alongside her, seeing her in her element — calm, capable, brilliant — made everything else fade away.
He caught subtle cues from her that no one else ever did. The way she tapped her pen when she was thinking. The quiet sigh when a client request was particularly convoluted. The tiny smile she allowed herself when a presentation went well.
He smiled at these moments quietly, inwardly, then reminded himself to stay distant. To be her colleague, nothing more.
Still, he found himself lingering near her desk more than necessary, sitting just a bit closer in meetings, sharing brief, fleeting glances that lasted far too long.
He noticed her perfume sometimes — faint, almost elusive, like something caught in passing. It wasn't overpowering, but it clung to the air after she'd walked away, subtle and unforgettable. It unnerved him how much he noticed it.
Isabelle
Somewhere in the middle of the week, she found herself laughing at a joke he had made — a subtle quip about a client's obsession with fonts — and realised she was beginning to feel lighter than she had in months.
They were in sync, comfortably so. She didn't have to explain herself. He understood her mood with a raised brow, a shift in posture, a simple nod.
Sometimes she caught herself watching him when he wasn't looking — the quiet way he listened in meetings, how he paused before speaking, as if weighing each word for honesty. There was restraint in everything he did. And that restraint drew her in.
During a lunch break, they walked along the Thames, discussing work lightly, but always with that undercurrent. Neither mentioned the lunch by the river from weeks ago, nor did they need to.
The conversation meandered — clients, deadlines, holiday plans. The wind carried the scent of the river, cold and metallic, and their voices seemed to fall easily into rhythm with it.
At one point, she brushed a loose strand of hair back, and he instinctively reached out to steady the takeaway cup in her hand. Their fingers touched briefly. Neither of them moved away.
It lasted no longer than a second, but it felt suspended — something small, charged, and quietly significant.
When they finally stepped apart, she forced a light tone. "Do you have to be in charge of everything?"
He smiled. "Only on weekdays."
And she laughed, even though her chest ached a little.
Robert
He noticed her growing comfort, her ease, and it tugged at him in ways he couldn't articulate.
He wanted to tell her that he admired her — her composure, her kindness, her ability to stand her ground even when the world tilted against her. But words like that would blur boundaries he wasn't willing to cross.
So instead, he stayed late under the pretext of finalising reports. He made sure her workload wasn't too heavy, quietly picking up the slack when she was overwhelmed. He told himself it was practicality, leadership. But it wasn't. Not entirely.
He found himself timing meetings so he could walk her to the station, ensuring she didn't leave the building alone when the winter evenings fell too quickly. He told himself it was courtesy, but his heart betrayed him each time she smiled in thanks.
Every moment she relaxed near him — a small laugh, a flash of warmth — made him ache with the awareness of how much he wanted to protect it, and how impossible that was.
Isabelle
By the end of the week, she caught herself smiling at things that had nothing to do with work — the way he stirred his coffee, the dry humour he used to point out typos, the faint crease in his forehead when a client demanded revisions.
He had become her calm point, her quiet.
She felt something stirring — fragile, quiet, impossible to name.
And yet, she kept it contained. Kept it professional. Kept it carefully, impossibly, at a distance. Because that was the safest way to work. Because that was the only way to keep her heart intact.
But when she caught him looking at her from across the meeting room, just for a second — the kind of look that carried more weight than words — she felt that electricity all over again.
A glance. A smile. A shared joke whispered between meetings. And suddenly the day felt warmer, the office quieter, the world less grey.
It was friendship, yes.
It was camaraderie.
But it was more.
And they both knew it — even if neither dared breathe it into existence.