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I didn't think about the morning until later.
At first, the day carried me along the way it was supposed to. Screens lit up. Emails came in. Someone showed me where files were stored and how meetings were scheduled. I nodded, listened, took notes. I smiled when required.
It wasn't until I was seated at my desk, the office noise settling into a low, constant hum around me, that I realized something was off.
My hand kept drifting to my collar.
There was nothing wrong with it. The knot was straight. The fabric lay flat against my chest. Still, my fingers brushed it again, like muscle memory hadn't gotten the message that the moment was already over.
I forced my hand back to the keyboard.
Focus, I told myself.
This was my first real day. I'd wanted this. I'd earned it. I wasn't going to spend it replaying a hallway and a pair of hands that had adjusted my tie with far more care than necessary.
And yet.
Every time my thoughts slipped, they went there.
Not to the interview. Not to the building or the people or even the CEO passing through the floor with his controlled presence. He was just another part of the environment authoritative, distant, unremarkable in the way powerful people often were.
What unsettled me wasn't work.
It was the quiet after.
By mid-morning, I realized something else.
I'd checked my phone three times without meaning to.
There were notifications. Group chats. Work emails syncing. Nothing from Ziven.
I didn't expect a message. I hadn't told him when my break was. There was no reason for him to text in the middle of a workday.
Still, the absence was registered.
That bothered me more than the absence itself.
I told myself it was habit. That living in the same house had rewired small things like expecting to see him in the kitchen, or hearing his footsteps at certain hours.
Habits didn't tighten your chest when they went unfulfilled.
I pushed through the rest of the day on autopilot. When people spoke to me, I answered. When tasks were assigned, I completed them. The structure helped, even if my thoughts lagged half a step behind my body.
By the time I clocked out, I was exhausted in a way that didn't quite match the work I'd done.
The ride home was quiet. I watched the city slide past, lights flickering on as the sky dimmed. My reflection stared back at me in the window, faint and slightly distorted.
I looked… fine.
Normal.
But there was a restlessness under my skin that hadn't been there yesterday.
When I stepped into the house, the familiar scent of home wrapped around me, grounding and comforting. The sound of movement came from the kitchen.
Ziven was there.
He stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, chopping vegetables with that same unhurried precision he brought to everything. He looked up when he heard me.
"You're back."
"Yeah."
"How was your day?"
The question was casual. Ordinary.
And yet something in me eased at the sound of it, like a tight string finally slackening.
"Good," I said. "Busy."
He nodded. "Did you eat?"
"No."
"Sit."
I did, setting my bag down, watching him move around the kitchen. He didn't ask what I wanted. He didn't need to. He set a glass of water in front of me without comment, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
None of it was dramatic.
That was the problem.
It felt practiced. Familiar. Like we'd been doing this longer than we actually had.
We ate together, the quiet comfortable but charged in a way I couldn't quite name. He asked about work what I'd learned, how the team seemed. He listened without interrupting, nodding occasionally, filing things away.
I realized, suddenly, that he remembered everything I said.
When I finished, he said, "You'll adjust quickly."
"You always sound so sure," I replied.
"I am."
I believed him without question.
After dinner, I took my plate to the sink. The faucet sputtered when I turned it on, then stalled completely.
"Seriously?" I muttered, twisting the handle.
"It sticks sometimes," Ziven said, already stepping closer.
Before I could move, he reached around me, his arm passing so close I felt the heat of him without contact. His hand closed over the handle, twisting gently until the water flowed again.
For a second, we were standing too close.
His chest was near my shoulder. I could feel his presence behind me, solid and steady. When he exhaled, the breath brushed the side of my neck, light enough that it sent a strange shiver through me.
I froze.
"There," he said quietly.
"Thanks," I replied, my voice rougher than I intended.
He didn't move right away.
Neither did I.
The moment stretched, fragile and unspoken. I had the unmistakable sense that something was being held in place by sheer will alone that if either of us shifted, it would break.
Ziven stepped back first.
The space returned, thin and deliberate.
I noticed how carefully he did it.
Not abrupt. Not awkward.
Controlled.
"I'm going to turn in early," I said, needing distance before I started thinking too hard about why my heart was still racing.
"That's probably wise," he replied.
I paused near the hallway. "Ziven?"
"Yes?"
"Thanks. For asking about my day."
Something unreadable crossed his face. "Of course."
I went to my room and closed the door behind me, leaning against it for a moment longer than necessary.
Nothing had happened.
No line crossed. No confession. No mistake.
And yet
Lying in bed later, the day replayed itself in fragments. The office hum. The absent message. The quiet relief when he spoke. The warmth of him standing too close in the kitchen.
I hadn't gone looking for his attention.
I hadn't decided it mattered.
But I was starting to notice when it was there.
And when it wasn't.
Standing that close to him again, I'd felt the same subtle shift as before not in the world, not in the house, but in the space between us.
Something unfinished.
And as sleep finally crept in, one thought settled heavier than the rest:
I hadn't planned to notice any of this.
I just had.
And now that I had, I wasn't sure how I was supposed to stop.