CHAPTER TWO — Proximity
592 Words
Her desk was positioned exactly where it should be: just outside his office, close enough to hear the low murmur of his voice through the glass, far enough to feel perpetually exposed.
By noon, she understood why no one stayed.
The work was relentless, but that wasn’t the problem. She’d handled worse, political offices where crises broke before breakfast, law firms where associates slept under desks. Pressure didn’t scare her.
What unsettled her was the silence.
He did not summon her unless necessary. When he did, it was brief. Precise. Entire conversations reduced to clipped instructions and uninflected acknowledgments. He never thanked her. He never corrected her either.
Which meant she was doing everything right.
She should have been relieved.
Instead, she found herself hyperaware of him in a way that felt dangerously unprofessional. The sound of his footsteps before he entered the office. The way the air seemed to shift when he stood behind her desk to retrieve a document. The fact that he never touched her, but always came close enough that she could feel the warmth of him before he moved away.
Once, mid-afternoon, he leaned over her shoulder to point at her screen.
“For future reference,” he said quietly, “flag anything from legal before it hits my calendar.”
She nodded, fingers still on the keyboard.
“Understood.”
His hand hovered near the back of her chair. Not touching. Never touching.
For half a second, neither of them moved.
Then he straightened and stepped back as if he’d brushed against something hot.
She didn’t turn around until she was sure he was gone.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of efficiency. Calls routed. Meetings scheduled. Minor crises neutralized before they reached him. By the time the office began to empty, she realized she hadn’t eaten.
She was filing the last set of documents when his door opened.
“Miss—”
She stood immediately.
He stopped short, clearly not expecting that. Something like irritation crossed his face before being smoothed away.
“Sit,” he said.
She did.
He studied her for a moment longer than necessary, as though recalibrating.
“You can go,” he said. “I don’t require you after six.”
That was—unexpected. “Thank you.”
The word slipped out before she could stop it.
His expression tightened.
“You don’t thank me for doing my job,” he said. “Or yours.”
She nodded once. “Understood.”
She gathered her things quietly, deliberately. When she reached the door, his voice stopped her again.
“You adapted quickly.”
It was not praise. Not quite. But it was something.
“Experience,” she said.
His gaze lingered on her face, searching, assessing, restrained.
“Yes,” he said softly. “I imagine you have.”
The implication was faint, almost imperceptible. But it landed.
Her pulse quickened.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, choosing distance over curiosity.
As she stepped into the hallway, she felt it, the unmistakable weight of his attention following her, stopping only when the elevator doors closed.
Back in his office, alone, he stood very still.
He told himself this was manageable. That time dulled memory. That power was control, and control was something he had mastered.
But when he reached for his jacket, his hand paused, betrayed by a tension he hadn’t felt in years.
Because he did remember her.
And the line he had drawn so carefully that morning was already beginning to blur.
- Writer
