The breakroom was quiet. Almost too quiet. Like it knew something I didn’t.
I walked in half-blind from lack of sleep, the glare of corporate emails still burned into my retinas. And there he was—leaning against the counter like he’d always belonged there.
Elijah.
In a dark grey shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, reading something on his phone with a half-smirk on his face. I hated how put-together he looked. And how my eyes kept returning to the line of his jaw, like it owed me something.
“You again,” I said, pouring myself the worst cup of coffee on Earth.
He glanced up, that annoyingly perfect smile spreading like he knew something I didn’t. “You sound disappointed.”
“Disappointed would imply I had expectations.”
“Ouch,” he said, laughing. “But fair.”
He took a step closer. No
