It was the first Monday she'd seen him in person for weeks.
The sight of Robert stepping through the glass doors of Hale & Partners sent something tight and unexpected through Isabelle's chest. It was ridiculous, she told herself. He was just back in the office, that was all. But still, her breath hitched slightly before she caught herself.
He looked different.
His usual sharpness — the immaculate suits, the clean shave, the crisp precision that seemed to define him — was dulled. His tie was slightly loosened, his hair a little too long, and faint shadows bruised the skin under his eyes. He looked tired. Older somehow.
And yet, seeing him again felt like the first deep breath after weeks of holding one's lungs empty.
He nodded briefly at her as he passed her desk.
'Morning, Isabelle,' he said, voice even, neutral.
'Morning,' she replied softly, trying not to linger on his face.
He didn't stop to chat, didn't even pause long enough for their eyes to meet properly. But she noticed the faint slump of his shoulders, the quiet exhaustion in his step as he disappeared into Richard's office.
The week that followed felt strange — quieter, steadier, yet threaded with an awareness that she couldn't seem to shake.
Robert was around more often now, but distant. He attended meetings, gave presentations, answered questions with the same clinical efficiency he always had. But something was off — a restlessness beneath the surface, as though his mind was elsewhere entirely.
He didn't joke with her anymore.
Didn't linger by her desk with a comment about her notes, or ask how her kids were doing.
It should have made things easier. Simpler.
After all, she'd decided to move on — to keep her focus on her work, her children, her own life.
And yet…
Each time she caught sight of him, she felt that same dull ache, the one that had followed her since that night in the cab. She wanted to tell herself it was pity — that she was only worried about him because he looked so worn down — but the truth nestled deeper than that.
It was care. Pure, uninvited care.
Robert hadn't meant to come in that morning.
He could have handled everything from home, as he had been doing for weeks now. But something about the distance had begun to feel hollow, like he was deliberately standing outside his own life.
He told himself it was about control — about keeping things professional. But the truth was that he missed her.
Not in a dramatic, romantic way. Just… quietly. Constantly.
He missed the sound of her voice in meetings, the way she brought order to chaos, how she smiled without meaning to when she caught someone else's mistake and fixed it before they'd even noticed.
But when he saw her that morning, something twisted in him.
She looked lighter somehow. The tension that had clung to her for months had eased. Her eyes seemed softer, her movements unhurried. There was colour in her cheeks again — and when someone at the reception desk made a joke, she actually laughed.
It hit him harder than it should have.
He didn't know why it bothered him — that she seemed… happy. That maybe, just maybe, she'd stopped thinking about him entirely. That she was moving on while he was still stuck in whatever strange limbo he'd built around them.
He didn't comment. Didn't dare to. He simply carried on, keeping his voice even, his face unreadable.
But by the time he made it into his office and shut the door behind him, the exhaustion hit like a weight.
He'd barely been sleeping — nights spent staring at the ceiling, trying to quiet a mind that wouldn't stop replaying things he couldn't change. Work had lost its shine. Even the adrenaline that used to come with completing a project felt flat.
And beneath it all was her face, flashing unbidden in his thoughts at the most inconvenient moments.
Later that week, she was updating client notes when he passed her desk again, speaking quietly into his phone. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, and for a second, she saw the faint tremor in his hand as he pinched the bridge of his nose.
Her chest tightened.
She wanted to say something — Are you all right? You look exhausted. You should take a break.
But she didn't.
Because she didn't have the right, did she? Not after the lines he'd drawn, the distance they'd both agreed to maintain without ever saying the words aloud.
Still, as he walked away, the urge lingered.
When she looked down at her laptop, her fingers hovered uselessly over the keys.
That evening, after most of the staff had gone home, he found himself standing by the window of his office, looking out at the city lights. The Thames gleamed faintly in the distance, the pulse of London alive beneath a low, misty sky.
He could see her desk from where he stood — tidy, papers neatly stacked, her coat draped over the back of her chair. She was still there, finishing something, completely absorbed in her screen.
He should have gone home.
He didn't.
For several minutes, he just stood there, watching her work — the calm precision of her movements, the small furrow in her brow when she concentrated.
He told himself again that he was doing the right thing — keeping his distance, preserving her reputation, keeping the boundaries clear.
But the ache in his chest didn't agree.
He ran a tired hand through his hair and finally turned away. His reflection in the glass caught him off guard — unshaven, worn, a man who looked far older than he felt. A man who used to believe in control.
When she finally left the office that night, she caught a glimpse of him through the glass walls — standing by the window, motionless, the city lights painting him in faint gold and blue.
He looked so lost.
Something in her ached to cross that space between them — to reach out, to say You don't have to do this.
But she didn't move. She couldn't.
Instead, she turned and walked away, telling herself for the hundredth time that this was what they both needed — clean lines, professional distance, no mess, no risk.
Even if those lines cut a little more deeply every time she obeyed them.