Chapter 7: Familiar Ground
1389 Words
It didn’t feel new anymore.
That was the difference, the subtle shift that neither of them had named but both had begun to recognize in the rhythm of their days.
Bobby still came to the sales floor often. At first, his presence had drawn attention, the kind that paused conversations and recalibrated posture. Now, it blended into the environment. People noticed him, but only in the way one notices something that has already been accounted for.
He moved through it easily.
“Good morning, Atty. Bobby.”
“Morning.”
“You’re here early today.”
“I had time.”
“That’s rare.”
“I make exceptions.”
Laughter followed him as he passed—light, familiar, unforced. He stayed long enough to ask questions, to listen, to offer small remarks that kept the tone steady without disturbing its flow. It was a version of him that fit here, measured against a different kind of rhythm than the one he kept in Legal.
But it was not the whole of him.
Across the floor, Athena ended a call, her voice carrying the final edge of instruction as she closed it cleanly. She lowered the device, composed, already moving forward in thought before she looked up.
“You’re early.”
Bobby glanced at his watch, though he already knew the answer.
“I’m consistent.”
“You’re predictable.”
“That sounds less flattering.”
“It’s not meant to be.”
A faint exchange of expression passed between them—brief, controlled, almost imperceptible to anyone not watching closely enough to understand it mattered.
Behind them, the sales board updated in real time. Figures shifted, rankings adjusted, names re-ordered in silent competition.
Bobby’s eyes moved to it out of habit.
They always did.
Athena’s name remained near the top.
“Maintaining position,” he said.
“Maintaining standards,” she replied.
“Same result.”
“Different approach.”
He turned slightly toward her. “You don’t check it?”
“I know when I’ve done the work.”
The answer stayed with him longer than it should have, settling somewhere that logic alone did not touch.
It became routine after that.
Elevators shared without planning. Conversations that began without intention. Time that was not scheduled but still repeated with increasing familiarity, as though the floor itself had started recognizing a pattern they hadn’t agreed to.
“You’re here again,” she said one afternoon as he approached.
“I visit.”
“Frequently.”
“I prefer consistency.”
She studied him then, not casually, not in passing. There was nothing quick in the way she observed him—only attention that registered detail without announcing it.
“You choose where to spend your time,” she said.
“I do.”
“And this is your choice.”
He met her gaze without hesitation. “Yes.”
A pause followed, unhurried and deliberate.
She nodded slightly, more to herself than to him, as if confirming something she had already begun to understand.
“Do you drink coffee?” he asked.
“Sometimes.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s enough of one.”
“Come by Legal later.”
“For what?”
“Coffee.”
“You don’t usually make time for that.”
“I do. Just not often.”
Another beat passed between them.
“I’ll see,” she said.
She came.
Not early. Not late.
Exactly when she intended to.
Bobby looked up as she entered, acknowledging her without surprise, as though it had never been in question.
“Ortaliz.”
“Carrero.”
A cup already sat on the desk. He slid it toward her without comment.
Black.
She noticed immediately.
“You remember.”
“I pay attention.”
She took the seat across from him, composed, settled in a way that suggested she had begun to understand the space rather than merely occupy it.
“You work differently here,” she said.
“Less noise.”
“More control.”
“Something like that.”
Silence followed—not empty, but contained, like something both of them were careful not to break too early.
“You still come to Sales,” she said.
“I do.”
“You don’t need to.”
“No.”
The answer lingered longer than the question.
Days passed without needing to mark them.
“Coffee?” he asked again one afternoon.
“You’re turning this into a habit.”
“I prefer consistency.”
“You don’t need one.”
“I choose it.”
A pause.
“Ten minutes,” she said.
This time, she did not wait for invitation. She simply arrived and sat, as though the space had already accounted for her presence.
“You’re getting comfortable,” he said.
“I adapt.”
“You’re using my lines.”
“I’m improving them.”
A faint smile appeared and disappeared too quickly to be claimed as anything definitive.
“You’re still at the top,” he added.
“The board updates daily.”
“And you don’t check?”
“I know.”
He studied her for a moment longer than necessary. “I check.”
She looked at him. “Why?”
He didn’t look away.
“Because I like seeing it.”
The admission was not casual. It didn’t need to be.
She didn’t respond. Instead, she lifted the cup and took a quiet sip, allowing the silence to hold its shape without interruption.
Sometimes they spoke about work. Sometimes they didn’t.
“You left easily?” he asked once.
“No.”
But you stayed.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
A pause—measured, complete.
“Because I chose to.”
He nodded once, as if that alone was sufficient.
It was.
The elevator became another point of continuity.
Shared space. Shared timing. No longer unexpected.
“You’ve been coming to Sales more,” she said.
“I have.”
“Why?”
He looked at her then, fully.
“I’m still deciding.”
“You’ve had time.”
“I use it carefully.”
A pause.
“And?”
His gaze held steady.
“I was right to.”
Something shifted again between them—subtle, but no longer deniable.
At lunch, voices called out from one of the tables.
“Sir, join us!”
Bobby glanced toward them, then back with a faint edge of ease.
“Careful,” he said. “I might stay.”
“You always say that,” someone replied.
“And I always mean it.”
Laughter followed as he joined briefly, relaxed in a way that required no effort here. Across the room, Athena sat a few seats away, present in the same space but not defined by it. She did not seek attention, nor avoid it. She simply existed within it, unchanged by its volume.
Effortless in a different way.
But when their eyes met across the room, even briefly, the shift was still there.
Unspoken. Recognized. Not resolved.
Later, when the noise thinned and the floor returned to its working rhythm, she spoke again.
“You’re different with them.”
“Better or worse?”
“Lighter.”
He nodded slightly. “It’s easier.”
A pause.
“And with me?”
He did not answer immediately. The silence stretched just long enough to matter.
“Not easier.”
It stayed there between them, unclaimed and intact.
One afternoon, she said without preamble, “You’re being observed.”
“I always am.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
A beat.
“I know.”
“Be careful. People might start making assumptions.”
“Let them.”
“That doesn’t affect you.”
“No.”
Another pause followed.
“It affects you?”
She held his gaze, steady and unblinking. “I don’t let it.”
She stood then, already returning to motion.
“I have work.”
“Of course.”
She walked away as she always did.
But this time, the space she left behind didn’t feel like distance.
It felt familiar.
Bobby watched her go, then glanced down at the empty cup on his desk, still warm in the quiet that followed.
“Yeah,” he said softly.
“This is a habit.”
- Writer
