Running into you

Chapter 2

✦✧Sage✦✧

It’s been three mornings. Three mornings of awkwardly “coincidental” hallway meetings, three mornings of wondering if the universe had a peculiar sense of humor, or if maybe my brain had just started imagining patterns out of sheer paranoia. Every single morning, like clockwork, I ran into him—or maybe “ran into” was too generous, considering how much space we actually gave each other, and yet here we were, in the exact same hallway, at the exact same hour, like some poorly scripted sitcom.

This morning marked day four, and I wasn’t about to pretend it was a coincidence anymore. My coffee-fueled skepticism was tipping over into full-blown acceptance: apparently, I had a running partner I hadn’t agreed to.

I stepped out into the hallway, tugged on my hoodie, and double-checked that my hair wasn’t doing anything tragically cartoon ish. Not ten seconds later, there he was stepping out casually, earbuds dangling and hoodie half-zipped, the sort of morning-routine perfection I both envied and wanted to smack.

“Great,” I muttered under my breath. “Another morning, another subtle reminder that fate has zero respect for my personal space.”

Our eyes met, the same brief recognition as the previous three mornings, but today it felt… heavier somehow, like the universe was nudging me with a smirk and whispering, “Yep, this is your life now.”

We started down the stairs, synchronized as if we’d choreographed this, except apparently my coordination had other plans. One misjudged step, a rogue shoelace, and suddenly my ankle betrayed me in the most spectacular way possible. My foot twisted, a sharp stab shot up my leg, and gravity, never one to miss an opportunity for humiliation, tried to drag me along for the ride.

Of course, why not? Gravity had a vendetta, apparently, and suddenly I was flailing like a newborn giraffe learning the art of locomotion, limbs everywhere, a small yelp escaping me because ow, that actually hurt.

“Whoa! Hey—are you okay?” His voice was immediately there, concern laced with just enough surprise to make me feel simultaneously supported and ridiculously clumsy.

I tried to shrug it off, hobbling on one foot. “Yeah, I’m… fine. Just testing the structural integrity of the stairs. Science stuff, very important.”

“Uh-huh.” He crouched slightly, peering at my ankle. “That doesn’t look fine.”

I winced, realizing my attempted limp had crossed into the territory of actually cannot put weight on it. Fantastic. I’d gone from casual jogger to human paperweight in the span of two seconds.

“I’m… I’m okay,” I muttered, mostly to convince myself. “Really. It’s just… uh… a minor… dramatic inconvenience.”

He reached out, firm but careful, and before I could protest, had my arm over his shoulder. “You’re not walking down these stairs like that,” he said flatly, the kind of no-nonsense tone that made it clear he wasn’t negotiating. “Let’s get you back upstairs .”

Embarrassment surged hotter than the pain in my ankle. My cheeks flamed as I allowed him to half-guide, half-carry me back toward my door.

How is this happening? Why am I letting this happen?

Once inside, I collapsed onto the couch, grimacing. “You know, this is how I always envisioned my first encounter with you. Limping, whining, fully dependent. Perfect first impression.” I said, attempting humor while simultaneously trying not to show that my ankle was screaming at me in a language that definitely wasn’t English.

He rolled his eyes, or at least I imagined he did, and I couldn’t help but smile despite myself. “Well, you’ve already set a high bar for morning chaos,” he said, stepping back slightly, letting me breathe without smothering me with help. “You should probably rest this ankle before you try to run anywhere.”

“Noted,” I said, wincing again and propping my foot on the couch. “Rest, avoid stairs, try not to die of embarrassment. Got it. Instruction manual, please.”

He shook his head, a small exasperated half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll leave the sarcasm part up to you. You’re lucky this is the first time. I’m not covering for future incidents.” He said lightly before heading toward the door.

I huffed a laugh, part self-deprecating, part incredulous, and watched him retreat, feeling humiliated but grateful. After he left I just sat there for a second, staring at my ankle like it had personally betrayed me.

“So this is how you’re choosing violence today,” I muttered, nudging it gently before immediately regretting the decision.

I grabbed an ice pack from the freezer, wrapped it in a towel because I was not about to add frostbite to my list of accomplishments, and propped my leg up on a throw pillow that had absolutely not signed up to be a medical aid.

Eventually, I convinced myself to stand again and shuffled my way to the bathroom. The shower took longer than usual, not because I was being dramatic, but because hopping on one leg while trying not to slip and die was, shockingly, a slow process.

Breakfast was simple. Nothing fancy, nothing that required standing for too long. I moved around the kitchen carefully, sliding rather than stepping, mentally congratulating myself for choosing an apartment layout that allowed me to survive minor injuries without fully collapsing.

I ate on the couch, leg still elevated, phone in hand, scrolling aimlessly at first before finally grabbing my laptop and opening my emails.

Unread messages stared back at me. Client inquiries, follow-ups, a reminder from the firm I occasionally contracted with, and at least three emails that all started with some variation of “Just checking in…” , which everyone knew was professional code for please don’t ghost us.

I sighed, setting my plate aside and shifting into work mode. Interior design wasn’t glamorous the way people thought it was. It wasn’t all mood boards and perfectly styled spaces bathed in golden-hour light. A lot of it was emails. A lot of revisions. A lot of explaining—gently and patiently—why no, putting a velvet couch in a house with three toddlers and a golden retriever was not a bold design choice, it was a cry for help.

I replied to a potential client first, carefully crafting my words, balancing warmth with professionalism. Then another. Then another. Time slipped by in that quiet, focused way it always did when I was working, the world narrowing down to layouts, budgets, timelines, and the small satisfaction of solving problems before they became disasters.

Every now and then, my ankle would throb, a dull reminder that I was supposed to be resting, not mentally rearranging someone else’s living room. I adjusted the ice pack, winced, and kept going anyway, because some habits died hard.

My phone buzzed insistently, dragging me out of my work-induced trance.Peyton’s name lit up the screen, and I felt a pang of guilt. She’d probably been muttering under her breath about me not calling again, and honestly… she’d be right.

I swiped to answer. “Hey… Peyton,” I said, trying to sound casual, though the familiar warmth of her voice on the other end made me flinch slightly.

“Oh! Finally!” she exclaimed, mock scandal in her tone. “I was beginning to think you’d decided that moving to a new city meant cutting me out entirely from your life, which, for the record, is a very specific and selfish brand of betrayal I do not appreciate. Seemed like you’d officially abandoned all forms of sisterly communication. You know, signed a permanent treaty with silence. I might have to call the authorities if you keep this up.”

“I wouldn't dream of it. I’ve just been… you know… busy. Settling in. Finding my new rhythm. Typical stuff”

“Ah, the classic ‘I’m too busy being responsible’ excuse. Solid. Very convincing. I’m impressed you didn’t claim aliens stole your phone too. Or that you were trapped in a mountain of cardboard boxes for three days straight.”

I laughed, shaking my head, knowing she’d never let this go. “Okay, okay, I admit it. I’ve been terrible, I’m sorry. Life happened. Adult-ing is… a lot. And by a lot, I mean it hit me over the head like a very caffeinated toddler.”

“Oh, yes, your very grown-up, I-do-not-need-my-sister life,” she said, with a theatrical sigh that somehow traveled perfectly through the phone line. “Do you even remember how to call me, or was that skill lost in the moving boxes somewhere?”

“Peyton,” I said, rolling my eyes even though she couldn’t see it. “I’m sorry.”

“Sure, sure. Let’s move past the tragic heroics of your daily life,” Peyton teased. “I want updates on the important stuff. Rory misses you a lot. You do remember she exists, right? Or has your busy new adult life erased her from memory?”

“Oh, my tiny dictator-in-training, absolute chaos generator, and, most importantly, still my favorite little human. I need details though, has she taken over your house completely? Invented new rules no one asked for? Put you through the ringer yet?”

“She’s… thriving, obviously,” Peyton said, tone dripping with amusement. “You’re not her only victim of influence though. Don’t forget that. And yes, she has officially decided that you are her designated snack supplier and emotional support in case of mild boredom or minor injustice, so congratulations, aunt of the year.”

I snorted. “Ah, fantastic, just what I always wanted. My life is complete.”

“You’re welcome,” Peyton said, her laughter spilling through the phone. “How’s life treating you though? Are you settling into the apartment okay? No rebellions yet, I hope?”

“I’m fine,” I said, wincing slightly as I shifted my leg. “Work’s keeping me busy, which is good, even if I occasionally threaten my own sanity in the process. But I’m surviving, at least enough to not call the authorities on my own life.”

“See? That’s the update I needed. Glad to hear you’re alive and relatively sane. Makes a sister proud.”

“Thanks,” I said softly, feeling a little lighter as I listened to her voice.

We talked for a little longer, joking, teasing, sharing small updates.