The morning sun pushed through the curtains like a gentle insistence that the world still existed. Amelia woke early, the hum of the city just beginning to rise. For a long moment she lay still, trying to remember where she was: the quiet of the hotel, the faint trace of coffee somewhere down the corridor, the memory of last night's laughter, the taste of wine and a kiss she hadn't meant to give.
It hadn't been a dream.
Her phone buzzed with the day's agenda. One meeting, ten o'clock. Nothing more. After that, free hours that suddenly felt dangerous.
Alexander was already downstairs when she arrived at the conference suite, hair a little unruly, voice steady as ever. No one who looked at him would have guessed that his thoughts had been circling the same moment all night.
He greeted her with a polite nod, exactly as he would any colleague. Only his eyes betrayed him: warm, too careful.
The meeting passed in a blur of numbers and polite applause. When it ended, the other executives scattered for calls and flights. He waited until the last door closed before speaking.
"Lunch?"
She hesitated. "Maybe I should—"
"Please." Just that one word, quiet and certain.
She gave a small sigh and nodded.
They found a small restaurant across the street, tucked between a bookstore and a flower stall. The air smelled of basil and rain. Conversation began with work and wandered toward the unguarded corners of life: travel, music, the strange loneliness of hotels.
At one point she said, almost defensively, "You know this can only end badly for me."
He looked up. "Why?"
"Because people talk. Because you're you."
He set down his fork. "If I wanted to play games, I wouldn't have chosen you to play them with."
She blushed, unsure whether to believe him, but his eyes held no irony, only quiet sincerity.
Back at the hotel, he asked her to go over the presentation edits before they sent them to London. She agreed—partly because she wanted to prove she could, partly because she couldn't make herself walk away yet.
They worked for an hour at the small table in his suite, laptops open, coffee cooling beside them. Then the work began to fade into easy conversation again; the exhaustion of travel softened the edges between them.
"Let's take a break," he said finally, closing his computer. "My head's done for the day."
He found a film on the hotel's streaming service—a classic he half-remembered—and poured them both a glass of water instead of wine. "Truce," he said with a faint smile. "No work, no talk about meetings."
She laughed, curling one leg under her on the sofa. "I don't even know if I can switch my brain off anymore."
"You can try," he murmured.
For the first half hour they watched in silence. Then, somewhere between scenes, his hand brushed against hers on the cushion. The touch was small, deliberate, full of questions. She didn't pull away.
When she finally looked at him, he was already looking at her—no calculation, no charm, just a quiet, consuming need to be near her. He leaned closer, brushed a strand of hair from her face, and kissed her.
It wasn't the hungry rush of the night before. It was slower, deeper, a kiss that asked her to believe what words could not explain. When he drew back, he stayed close enough for her to feel his breath against her skin.
"Tell me to stop," he whispered.
She shook her head. "No."
He smiled then, a small, relieved smile, and pressed his forehead against hers. They sat like that, the film forgotten, the city outside turning gold with late afternoon.
She rested her head against his shoulder, and for the first time since she had started working at Harrington & Co., she felt completely unguarded. He wrapped an arm around her, the gesture protective rather than possessive.
"Why me?" she asked after a long silence.
"Because you make me want to be better than I was," he said. "And because when you walk into a room, everything else stops feeling important."
She laughed softly, almost shy. "You're very good at words."
"I'm terrible at words," he said. "Except with you."
They stayed that way until the credits rolled and the sky outside turned violet. Neither spoke of tomorrow. They both knew the week would end, and Manchester would wait, and reality would ask its questions. But for that evening, they allowed the world to be small: a sofa, a screen, two glasses, and the steady rhythm of hearts that had finally stopped pretending.
When she rose to go, he caught her hand gently.
"Stay a little longer," he said.
She looked at him for a moment, then sat back down, tucking herself beneath his arm once more. "Just until the city falls asleep."
He smiled. "Then we'll be here a while."
Outside, the lights of New York flickered against the clouds, and inside the quiet suite the only sound was their breathing—slow, calm, perfectly in sync.
When the film ended, the city lights had softened to a slow, amber glow.
Amelia stirred first, stretching a little, the movement pulling her back into reality. "I should go," she said quietly.
Alexander looked up from where he sat beside her on the sofa, still half-turned toward her. "It's late," he murmured. "You can stay a little longer."
She smiled, shaking her head. "You've already kept me longer than I planned."
He hesitated. "Just five minutes?"
"Five minutes," she agreed, but the way he said it made it sound like a plea.
They sat in silence, watching the reflections of traffic slide across the window glass. Then he reached out, his fingers brushing hers as if by accident. When she didn't move, he laced them together slowly, the warmth of his hand closing around hers.
"Amelia," he said, her name low and unsteady.
She looked up. The next moment his mouth found hers. It wasn't hurried; it was a kiss that held the same wonder as the first time someone touches fire and realises it doesn't always burn. She felt his hand rise to her cheek, his thumb tracing a line there, reverent and gentle.
When they broke apart, she rested her forehead against his shoulder for a moment before whispering, "I really do have to go."
He nodded but didn't let go immediately. "Promise me you'll come back tomorrow."
She laughed softly. "You don't have to make me promise. We have meetings."
"Then promise you'll come back after them."
Her eyes met his. "We'll see."
He smiled, kissed her again—slower this time, a parting and a promise all at once. "Goodnight, Amelia."
"Goodnight, Alexander."
When she left, he stood by the door listening to the echo of her steps down the corridor, already counting the hours until morning.
The next days blurred into a rhythm that felt like borrowed time.
They moved through meetings and briefings with flawless professionalism, but everyone who looked closely could sense a new current between them: a glance held a fraction too long, a tone softened without reason.
At lunch they sat side by side, shoulders brushing, trading small jokes that no one else caught. At night, after the city emptied of daylight, they met again—sometimes for dinner, sometimes just for an hour to go over notes that never really needed revising.
On Wednesday, after a presentation uptown, a sudden shower caught them without umbrellas. They ran under an awning, laughing, her hair damp against her face. He reached up instinctively, tucking a strand behind her ear. "You'll catch a cold," he said.
"You sound like someone's father," she teased.
He smiled. "Maybe I just care."
The rain eased; they didn't move. When he kissed her there, in the half-light of the street, the noise of the city fell away. It was softer than the first, more certain than the second, the kind of kiss that begins to mean something different each time it's repeated.
By Thursday, the familiarity between them had become something unspoken but undeniable. They worked side by side in his suite that morning, laptops open, papers spread between coffee cups. At some point she realised she was no longer tense in his presence. She could breathe around him, tease him, challenge him.
"Do you ever stop thinking about the company?" she asked, leaning back on the sofa.
He looked over the top of his screen. "Only when you're talking."
She threw a cushion at him, laughing; he caught it easily and didn't put it down. The laughter faded into quiet. He reached out, touched her hand resting on the armrest, fingers trailing across her wrist. The gesture was simple, but her pulse jumped beneath his fingertips.
He drew her closer, and she came willingly, finding herself against his shoulder, his arm around her. They stayed like that for a long time, the laptop screens glowing forgotten across the room.
Evenings turned into small rituals: he would order dinner; she would bring the notes she pretended to need his opinion on; one or both of them would pour wine; and somewhere between the second glass and the sound of the city below, he would find her hand, or she would rest her head against him.
They never spoke of what it was. They just let it be.
Friday came too soon. Their flight home was scheduled for that night.
They spent the morning at the downtown office and returned to the hotel for a final meeting. Afterwards, neither of them hurried to pack. She stood by the window, watching the planes crossing the sky in the distance. He came up behind her, slipped his arms gently around her waist.
"Don't go yet," he said against her hair.
"I have to."
"Then let me pretend for a minute that you don't."
She turned in his arms, looking up at him. The sadness in his eyes startled her—he, who always seemed carved from control, looked suddenly human.
"I wish we had more time," she said.
"So do I."
He kissed her once more, long and aching, the kind of kiss that said everything words couldn't. When they finally stepped apart, the city was beginning to darken again.
Later, as their car pulled away for the airport, Amelia looked back at the hotel lights fading into the distance. She felt his hand find hers on the seat between them. He didn't speak, and she didn't need him to.
Whatever this was, it had stopped belonging to New York.
It was already following them home.