Maybe avoiding him will help?
1258 Words
Monday mornings usually came with a certain predictability—Ella liked them that way. Same alarm, same half-asleep routine, same internal pep talk while brushing her teeth.
This Monday was… not predictable.
She stood in front of her mirror, tugging lightly at the hem of her blouse for the third time, heart thudding in a way that had nothing to do with caffeine deprivation. It was a simple outfit—nothing that screamed I am secretly in a relationship with my neighbor who makes my pulse misbehave—but she still checked herself like someone about to be interrogated.
“Calm down,” she muttered, grabbing her bag. “It’s just work.”
Except it wasn’t just work.
It was him.
She barely locked her door before turning down the hall toward Thompson’s apartment, nerves buzzing under her skin. She told herself she was only stopping by because it made sense—they were leaving around the same time anyway—but the truth sat softer and more dangerous in her chest.
She knocked.
The door opened almost immediately, like he’d been waiting right behind it.
Thompson blinked once, then smiled—wide, unguarded, the kind that reached his eyes and stayed there. “Hey,” he said, like the word alone meant something different now.
Ella felt it everywhere.
“Hi,” she replied, suddenly aware of her hands, her posture, the way her voice dipped slightly. She stepped inside before she could overthink it.
Diana was already in the living room, mug in hand, eyebrows lifting the second she saw Ella. There was a brief, charged pause—one of those moments where Ella wondered if her entire face was glowing like a neon sign.
“Oh,” Diana said lightly, standing. “Good morning. I was just—uh—about to go get dressed.”
Her gaze flicked between them, warm and knowing, before she smiled to herself and disappeared into her room, closing the door with exaggerated discretion.
Ella exhaled. “She definitely knows.”
Thompson laughed softly. “She knew before I did.”
“That’s… unsettling.”
He shrugged, still smiling, and then—without overthinking it—stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her.
The hug was easy. Natural. Like something they’d done a thousand times in another life.
Ella’s cheek pressed against his chest, and she inhaled, comfort settling in her bones. “Okay,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “This is real.”
“It is,” he said, voice low, amused. “You’re allowed to stay longer than three seconds, you know.”
She laughed and pulled back, looking up at him. “I know. I just—there’s something I wanted to say.”
He tilted his head, instantly attentive. “Okay.”
She hesitated, fingers twisting together. “About work.”
His expression softened. “Yeah?”
“I don’t want people to know,” she said quickly, like ripping off a bandage. “Not yet. Maybe not for a while. I’d be really uncomfortable if it became… a thing.”
He didn’t interrupt. Just listened.
“I know it might sound silly,” she added, already wincing. “But I just want this to be ours. Not whispered about. Not analyzed.”
Thompson nodded slowly. “It doesn’t sound silly.”
Relief loosened something in her chest.
“I don’t mind either way,” he continued. “But if you do, then that’s what we’ll do.”
She blinked. “Really?”
“Really.”
She smiled, small and grateful. “Thank you.”
He stepped closer, hands settling at her waist. “Though,” he added lightly, “you do realize this means I’m going to have to pretend I don’t want to do this.”
And then he kissed her.
Once.
Twice.
Three quick, playful pecks to her lips, each one followed by her laughing and trying—failing—to pull away.
“Thompson,” she giggled, swatting at his chest. “Stop.”
“Can’t,” he said, kissing her again. “You asked for secrecy, not restraint.”
She covered her face, laughing into her hands. “You’re impossible.”
“Yet here you are.”
He finally stopped, resting his forehead against hers, smiling softly. Then, almost casually, he laced his fingers through hers.
Her heart tripped.
They walked out together, hands linked, the morning air crisp against their skin. Ella tried not to overthink the way it felt—right, grounding, terrifying.
Halfway to the car, she cleared her throat. “So… small request.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Could you drop me off a bit away from work?”
He frowned. “Why?”
“Just—please,” she said. “I don’t want anyone seeing us arrive together.”
Concern flickered across his face. “Are you sure?”
She nodded. “I promise. It’s what I want.”
He studied her for a moment, then sighed softly. “Okay.”
They drove in comfortable silence, music low, fingers brushing occasionally over the console. When he finally pulled over a few streets away, she unbuckled and leaned over, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.
“Thank you,” she said again.
He smiled. “Anytime.”
By nine-thirty, Ella was already exhausted.
Not from work—no, work was fine.
It was the avoidance.
When the project manager suggested Thompson’s team collaborate with hers, Ella reacted purely on instinct.
“I can join the other group,” she blurted out.
Everyone turned to look at her.
“…Why?” someone asked.
She panicked. “Uh. I don’t like… chairs.”
Silence.
Thompson, across the table, pressed his lips together.
“Chairs?” the manager repeated.
“They’re distracting,” Ella said weakly. “Too many legs.”
She was reassigned without further questions, though the looks lingered.
Later, when Thompson approached her desk with a file, she stood up so fast she nearly knocked her chair over.
“I’m good!” she said loudly. “Very good. No help needed. At all.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Ella.”
“I’m busy,” she insisted, opening a document that was very clearly blank.
He leaned closer, voice low. “You just typed your name seventeen times.”
She froze.
“…I like consistency.”
At lunch, he offered her half his fries. She refused.
At the printer, he fixed a jammed paper tray for her. She hovered three feet away like it might explode.
By mid-afternoon, he cornered her gently near the coffee machine.
“You know,” he murmured, amused, “people are going to suspect something if you keep acting like I’m contagious.”
She groaned, covering her face. “I’m trying.”
“I can tell.”
She peeked at him through her fingers. “Am I being ridiculous?”
“A little,” he admitted. “But it’s kind of cute.”
She dropped her hands. “Don’t say that.”
He smiled anyway.
When the day finally ended, Ella slumped into her chair, relieved.
Her phone buzzed.
Thompson: You survived.
She smiled.
Ella: Barely. I think I blamed chairs today.
Thompson: Bold strategy.
She glanced around, then typed.
Ella: Thank you for… respecting this.
A pause.
Thompson: Always. But when you’re ready?
Her heart warmed.
Ella: I’ll let you know.
She packed her bag, standing a little straighter.
This—whatever this was—was new, terrifying, and hers.
And for once, she wasn’t running.
- Writer
