Monday morning arrived too soon.
The city felt different — louder, faster, less forgiving — as if it couldn't care less that two people had fallen in love over a single weekend.
Amelia stood in front of her wardrobe longer than usual, holding a navy-blue dress between her fingers.
It wasn't the dress that mattered; it was how to wear normality again. How to walk into that glass building and pretend nothing inside her had changed.
She tied her hair in a neat ponytail, painted her lips in soft rose, and whispered to her reflection, "You can do this."
Then she left for work.
When she entered the office, the usual buzz of keyboards and low chatter filled the air. Margaret was already at her desk, reading a report, her glasses perched at the tip of her nose.
"Morning, Amelia," she said, without looking up.
"Morning," Amelia replied, her tone steady — almost too steady.
The day unfolded with routine precision: meetings, approvals, emails.
But every so often, she felt it — that invisible thread that connected her to the man on the top floor.
Once, while walking down the corridor, she caught sight of him through the glass wall of a meeting room.
He was surrounded by board members, speaking confidently, his expression calm and focused.
But when his eyes lifted and found hers across the room, just for a second, everything stilled.
The look was brief — not even a full heartbeat — but it said everything: I see you. I remember.
Her chest tightened, and she quickly turned away, her face warming.
At lunch, she sat with two colleagues, barely touching her food.
They chatted about deadlines and a rumoured acquisition; Amelia nodded in all the right places but wasn't truly there.
When her phone vibrated under the table, she glanced at the screen:
Alexander: I miss you.
Her pulse spiked.
She typed back quickly:
We're at work.
A moment later:
Alexander: That's not an answer.
She bit back a smile, typing:
I miss you too.
By late afternoon, everyone seemed tired. Margaret gathered her things and waved before leaving early, muttering something about dinner plans.
Amelia stayed behind to finish a report, the office slowly emptying around her.
It was nearly seven when she finally stepped out of the elevator into the lobby, only to find him waiting near the entrance — coat in hand, posture relaxed, but eyes alight with quiet intent.
"Alexander," she whispered, glancing around. "You shouldn't—"
"There's no one here," he said softly. "Everyone's gone."
She hesitated, her heart already racing. "What are you doing?"
"Trying to think of a way to see you tonight without making it sound like I'm losing my mind," he said with a small smile.
Amelia laughed under her breath, shaking her head. "You're supposed to be the rational one."
"Not anymore."
She crossed her arms, trying to hide the way her lips curved. "What did you have in mind?"
"Dinner," he said simply. "And… maybe we decide whose apartment to use for the rest of the night."
She blinked, both nervous and touched by his honesty.
"Alexander…"
He took a step closer, lowering his voice. "I'm not asking because I want to intrude. I just want to be with you — no boardrooms, no rules. Just us."
Her heart ached at the sincerity in his tone. "And if someone sees you leaving my place tomorrow morning?"
He smiled faintly. "Then they'll assume the CEO of Harrington Industries had an early meeting."
She laughed softly, shaking her head. "You're impossible."
"I'm persistent," he corrected.
She exhaled slowly, glancing up at him. "Fine. But only if you promise to bring dinner."
His grin was immediate, boyish and unguarded. "Deal."
They drove together through the city, quiet at first. The skyline shimmered with light, the streets glistening after a light rain.
He had one hand on the wheel, the other resting open on the console — she reached across and took it without a word.
The gesture was simple, natural, and yet it made his chest tighten.
At her apartment, he set down the takeout bag and looked around.
"It's very you," he said softly. "Warm. Organised. Honest."
She smiled, slipping off her coat. "I didn't realise apartments could be honest."
"They can," he said, looking at her. "If their owners are."
Dinner was effortless — laughter over pasta, a shared glass of wine, the occasional brush of hands.
When the plates were empty, they left them on the table and moved to the sofa.
For a while, they just sat there, the city lights painting patterns on the walls.
Then, in a quiet voice, she said, "Can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
"Why me?"
He turned to her, surprised. "Why you?"
"Yes," she said softly. "You could have anyone, Alexander. Women who understand your world, who belong to it. And then there's me."
He leaned closer. "That's exactly why you. You don't want what I have — you see who I am. You challenge me. You remind me that I'm human."
Her eyes softened. "You make it sound so simple."
"It is," he said, brushing his thumb along her cheek. "I'm done pretending simplicity is a bad thing."
She smiled faintly, her voice trembling just a little. "You know what scares me?"
"What?"
"That this isn't real. That when you've had time to think, you'll change your mind."
He took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. "I don't want you to ever doubt what I feel."
He hesitated, then added, "I want you to meet my grandmother."
Her eyes widened. "What?"
He smiled softly. "She already knows about you. She told me she wanted to meet the woman who finally made me stop working after midnight."
Amelia's cheeks flushed. "Alexander, that's—"
"Too soon?"
"No," she said quietly. "It's just… unexpected."
He looked at her for a long moment, his voice barely above a whisper. "Everything about you was unexpected."
They talked until the city went quiet outside, their words gentle and honest.
When she finally leaned her head on his shoulder, he wrapped his arm around her, pressing a light kiss to her hair.
There was no rush, no pretense — just two people learning what it meant to belong somewhere again.
And when she finally whispered, "Stay," he smiled into her hair and said, "Always."