Copa 3D Boss

The first thing I notice about Elena Vasquez is that she doesn’t knock.

She walks into my office like she owns the building, a cardboard box balanced on her hip, and stops right in front of my desk. Not in front of the chair. In front of the desk. Like she’s about to audit my life.

“You’re in my spot,” she says.

I look up from the quarterly report I’ve been pretending to read for the last twenty minutes. The truth is I’ve been staring at the same spreadsheet cell, a small red number that refuses to make sense, because my brain checked out somewhere around the third cup of coffee. But she doesn’t need to know that.

“Your spot,” I repeat.

“My desk. My chair. My office.” She shifts the box to her other hip. “You’re sitting in it.”

I lean back. The chair creaks. It’s a good chair, leather, ergonomic, probably costs more than my first car. “I think you’ll find this is my office now.”

Her jaw tightens. Not much. Just a flicker, there and gone, like a light switching off in a far room. She’s got one of those faces that gives nothing away unless you’re watching closely, and I am. I’ve been watching closely since she walked in. It’s a habit. A bad one, probably.

“Right,” she says. “The new guy.”

“The new guy.”

“From New York.”

“Originally from Ohio, but we don’t have to get into that.”

She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink. Just stands there with her box and her unreadable face, and I get the distinct impression that she’s already decided exactly what she thinks of me, and it’s not flattering.

“They didn’t tell me you’d be here today,” she says.

“They didn’t tell me you’d be here at all.”

“I work here.”

“I gathered.”

She sets the box down on the corner of my desk. My desk. The corner digs into a stack of papers I haven’t organized yet, and she doesn’t apologize. Just stands there with her arms crossed, waiting for me to do something.

I should stand up. Offer my hand. Introduce myself properly. That’s what a normal person would do. But I’m not feeling particularly normal today, and there’s something about the way she’s looking at me, like I’m an inconvenience she’s already calculated into her schedule, that makes me want to be difficult.

“You can have the chair back,” I say. “But I’m keeping the desk.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“How does it work?”

She exhales through her nose. A tiny sound, barely there, but I catch it. “You’re the new creative director. I’m the senior designer. You get the office. I get the cubicle outside. That’s how it works.”

“Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.”

“I’ve been here six years. I know how things work.”

Six years. That’s a long time to be somewhere. Long enough to get comfortable. Long enough to resent someone walking in and taking your office.

I stand up. The chair rolls back behind me, and I’m taller than her by maybe four inches. She doesn’t step back. Doesn’t flinch. Just tilts her head up a fraction of an inch, enough to meet my eyes, and waits.

“Logan Pierce,” I say, offering my hand.

She looks at it for a second. Then she takes it. Her grip is firm, dry, businesslike. No lingering. No warmth.

“Elena Vasquez.”

“I know.”

Her eyebrows lift. Just a millimeter. “You know?”

“I read the personnel files. Yours was at the top.”

“Why?”

Because you’re the only one who’s been here longer than two years. Because your work is the only thing in this place that doesn’t look like it was designed by a committee of frightened accountants. Because I wanted to know who I’d be working with.

I don’t say any of that. Instead I shrug. “Curiosity.”

She pulls her hand back. “Right. Well. Welcome to Portland. The coffee’s terrible, the rain never stops, and the Wi-Fi goes down every Tuesday around two. Any other questions?”

“Just one.”

“What?”

“Why didn’t you knock?”

She stares at me for a long moment. Then she picks up her box, turns, and walks out. She doesn’t close the door behind her.

I watch her go. She’s wearing gray slacks and a black sweater, nothing flashy, but she moves like someone who knows exactly where she’s going and doesn’t care who’s watching. Her hair is dark, pulled back in a low ponytail, and there’s a pen tucked behind her ear. I don’t know why I notice that. I don’t know why I notice any of it.

The door stays open. I sit back down in the chair that used to be hers and stare at the spreadsheet again. The red number still doesn’t make sense.

---

The office is smaller than I expected. Not the building, the building is fine, a converted warehouse in the Pearl District with exposed brick and industrial windows and a view of the river if you squint. But the agency itself is cramped. Twenty people packed into a space designed for fifteen, desks shoved together, cables running across the floor like tripwires. The kind of place where you learn to walk carefully.

I spend the morning in meetings. Introductions. Handshakes. The usual corporate theater. Everyone smiles and says welcome and asks how I’m settling in, and no one means any of it. They’re all wondering the same thing: who is this guy, and why did they bring him in from New York, and is he going to fire us?

Fair questions. I’d be wondering the same thing.

By noon I’ve learned three things. One: the coffee is, in fact, terrible. Two: the Wi-Fi did go down at two, which is impressive, since it’s not even one yet. And three: Elena Vasquez doesn’t eat lunch with the rest of the team.

I notice it because I’m looking for her. Not intentionally. Just, every time I scan the room, my eyes land on her desk, and every time, she’s not there. Her cubicle is empty. Her computer is dark. The box she was carrying is still sitting on the corner of her desk, unopened.

“She eats outside,” someone says. A guy named Marcus, junior copywriter, eager to please. “Rain or shine. Says she needs the air.”

“In Portland?”

“You get used to it.”

I don’t ask any more questions. I just file it away, the way I file away everything, and go back to my office.

The afternoon is a blur of emails and spreadsheets and a conference call with the client from hell, a tech startup that wants to rebrand itself as “disruptive” without actually changing anything about what they do. I nod along, make notes, promise deliverables I’m not sure I can deliver. Standard stuff.

At five-thirty, I look up and realize the office is empty. Everyone’s gone home. Everyone except Elena.

She’s at her desk, headphones on, staring at her screen. The box is still there, still unopened. She hasn’t moved in hours.

I should leave. Go home. Unpack the boxes in my apartment, figure out where I’m going to put my books, order something for dinner that isn’t takeout. That’s what a normal person would do.

Instead I walk over to her desk.

She doesn’t look up. Doesn’t acknowledge me at all. Just keeps typing, fingers moving fast and precise, like she’s been doing this so long she doesn’t have to think about it anymore.

I stand there for a minute. Then two. Then I say, “You know, most people go home at some point.”

She pulls off her headphones. “Most people don’t have a rebrand due in three weeks.”

“The tech startup?”

“The tech startup.”

“I thought that was my project.”

She finally looks at me. Her eyes are brown. Dark, almost black in the fluorescent light. “It was my project. Before you got here.”

“And now?”

“Now it’s yours. I’m just cleaning up the mess.”

I lean against the edge of her desk. She doesn’t like it. I can tell by the way her shoulders tighten, just a fraction, just enough. But she doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t tell me to move. Just watches me with those dark eyes, waiting.

“What mess?” I ask.

“The mess you inherited. The client’s been through three creative directors in two years. None of them lasted. None of them listened.”

“And you think I won’t listen either.”

“I think you’re from New York and you’ve been here for twelve hours and you already think you know better than everyone else.”

She’s not wrong. I do think I know better. That’s why they hired me. That’s why I’m here.

But I don’t say that. Instead I say, “Tell me about the client.”

She blinks. “What?”

“The client. Tell me about them. What do they want? What do they actually want, not what they say they want?”

She studies me for a long moment. Then she pulls off her headphones completely, sets them on the desk, and leans back in her chair.

“They want to be cool,” she says. “They’re a bunch of forty-year-old engineers who think they’re still twenty-five. They want a brand that makes them feel young. But they don’t want to change anything about their product, because they think their product is perfect.”

“Is it?”

“No. It’s bloated and slow and the user interface is a nightmare. But they don’t want to hear that.”

“So what do you tell them?”

“I tell them what they want to hear. Then I design something that actually works and hope they don’t notice the difference.”

I laugh. I don’t mean to. It just comes out, a short, surprised sound, and Elena’s expression shifts. Not much. Just a flicker. But it’s there.

“What?” she says.

“Nothing. Just. That’s good. That’s smart.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I’m not surprised. I’m impressed.”

She looks away. “Don’t be. It’s just my job.”

“It’s more than your job. You’ve been here six years. You care about this place.”

“I care about doing good work. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

She doesn’t answer. Just turns back to her screen, pulls her headphones back on, and starts typing again. But she doesn’t tell me to leave. And I don’t.

I stand there for another minute, watching her work. The way her fingers move. The way she bites her lip when she’s concentrating. The way the light from the monitor catches the curve of her jaw.

Then I push off from her desk and walk back to my office.

---

The next morning, I get to the office at seven. Elena’s already there.

She’s at her desk, the box finally opened, its contents spread out around her: sketches, printouts, a half-empty mug of coffee that’s probably cold. She doesn’t look up when I walk past. Doesn’t say good morning. Just keeps working, like I’m not even there.

I go to my office. Close the door. Sit down. Open my laptop. Stare at the screen.

I can’t focus. My brain keeps drifting back to her. The way she looked at me. The way she didn’t look at me. The way she said “I know how things work” like it was a warning.

I don’t know why it bothers me. She’s just a designer. A senior designer, sure, but still. She’s not my boss. She’s not my problem. I’ve got bigger things to worry about.

But I can’t stop thinking about her.

At nine, there’s a knock on my door. A real knock, this time. Three quick raps, businesslike.

“Come in.”

It’s Elena. She’s got a folder in her hand, the kind of folder that means bad news.

“The client called,” she says. “They want to move the deadline up.”

“Move it up?”

“Two weeks. They want to launch at the conference.”

“What conference?”

“The one in two weeks.”

I lean back in my chair. The leather creaks. “That’s not possible.”

“I know.”

“We can’t do a full rebrand in two weeks.”

“I know.”

“So what do we tell them?”

She sets the folder on my desk. “I already told them.”

“You what?”

“I told them it’s not possible. I told them we’d need at least a month. They didn’t like it.”

“They didn’t like it.”

“No. They said they’d find someone who could do it faster.”

I stare at her. She stares back. Calm. Unbothered. Like she didn’t just risk the entire account without asking me first.

“You went over my head,” I say.

“I went around you. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

“You weren’t here. They called. I answered. I made a decision.”

“That’s not your decision to make.”

“Someone had to make it.”

I stand up. She doesn’t step back. Doesn’t flinch. Just stands there, folder in hand, waiting.

“You could have waited,” I say. “You could have told them I’d call back.”

“They weren’t going to wait. They wanted an answer.”

“And you gave them one.”

“Yes.”

“Without consulting me.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

She hesitates. Just for a second. Just long enough for me to see it.

“Because I’ve seen this before,” she says. “Three creative directors. Three times they promised the client something we couldn’t deliver. Three times the client walked away. I’m not doing it again.”

“So you decided to save me from myself.”

“I decided to save the account.”

I want to be angry. I should be angry. She undermined me. She made a call that wasn’t hers to make. She’s been here six years and she thinks she knows everything, and maybe she does, but that doesn’t mean she gets to run the show.

But I’m not angry. I’m something else. Something I don’t have a name for.

“Fine,” I say. “You made the call. Now we fix it.”

“Fix it how?”

“We call the client. We apologize. We tell them we can do it in three weeks, not two, and we’ll throw in something extra to make up for it.”

“What extra?”

“I don’t know yet. That’s what we’re going to figure out.”

She looks at me for a long moment. Then she nods. Just once. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay. I’ll set up the call.”

She turns to leave. I watch her go. She’s at the door when I say, “Elena.”

She stops. Doesn’t turn around. “What?”

“Next time, knock.”

She looks over her shoulder. Just a glance. Just enough.

“Next time,” she says, “be here.”

Then she’s gone.

---

The call goes better than expected. The client agrees to three weeks. They even sound relieved, like they were testing us, like they wanted to see if we’d push back. Elena handles most of it, her voice calm and steady, answering questions I didn’t even know needed answering. I watch her. I can’t help it. The way she talks. The way she listens. The way she knows exactly what to say and when to say it.

After the call, she stands up, stretches, and says, “I’m going to get lunch.”

“It’s raining.”

“I know.”

“You’re still going outside?”

“I always go outside.”

She grabs her jacket from the back of her chair and heads for the door. I watch her go. Then I grab my own jacket and follow.

She doesn’t notice me at first. She’s standing on the sidewalk, face tilted up to the sky, eyes closed, letting the rain hit her. It’s not a heavy rain, just a mist, the kind that soaks through your clothes if you stand in it long enough. She doesn’t seem to care.

“You’re going to get wet,” I say.

She opens her eyes. Looks at me. Doesn’t seem surprised. “That’s the point.”

“The point of what?”

“Of standing in the rain. You get wet. You feel something. It’s grounding.”

I step closer. The rain is cold on my face. “You do this every day?”

“Most days. Unless it’s really coming down.”

“And then?”

“Then I stand under the awning and watch.”

We’re quiet for a minute. Just the sound of rain on the sidewalk, cars passing, the distant hum of the city. It’s peaceful. I didn’t expect that.

“Why did you follow me?” she asks.

“I wanted to talk.”

“About what?”

“About yesterday. About the office. About why you don’t knock.”

She turns to face me. The rain has plastered a few strands of hair to her forehead. She doesn’t bother to brush them away.

“I don’t knock because it used to be my office,” she says. “I worked for that office for six years. I earned it. And then they gave it to you.”

“I didn’t ask for it.”

“I know.”

“They just gave it to me.”

“I know.”

“So you’re punishing me for something I didn’t do.”

She shakes her head. “I’m not punishing you. I’m just not making it easy.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re going to leave.”

The words hang in the air between us. I don’t know what to say. She’s not wrong. I’ve never stayed anywhere longer than three years. I get restless. I move on. It’s what I do.

“You don’t know that,” I say.

“I know your type.”

“My type?”

“Creative directors from New York. You come in with your big ideas and your fancy resume and you think you’re going to change everything. And then you get bored. Or you get a better offer. Or you realize Portland isn’t New York and you go back.”

“That’s a lot of assumptions.”

“Am I wrong?”

I don’t answer. Because she’s not wrong. Not entirely.

She nods, like my silence is confirmation. “That’s what I thought.”

She turns and walks back toward the office. I watch her go. The rain keeps falling. I stand there for a minute, letting it soak through my jacket, through my shirt, until I can feel it on my skin.

Then I follow her inside.

---

The next two weeks are hell.

Not because of the work, though the work is hard. The client keeps changing their mind, adding new requirements, sending emails at midnight with subject lines like “URGENT” and “ONE MORE THING.” We’re all running on caffeine and adrenaline, and the office looks like a war zone.

No, the hell is Elena.

She’s everywhere. In every meeting. On every call. At every desk, fixing something I didn’t know was broken. She’s the first one in and the last one out, and she never complains, never slows down, never stops. She’s a machine.

And she still doesn’t knock.

Every morning, she walks into my office without warning. Sometimes with coffee. Sometimes with questions. Sometimes with nothing at all, just standing there, looking at me, waiting for me to say something.

I’ve stopped telling her to knock. It doesn’t work. She just looks at me with those dark eyes and says, “You’re in my spot,” and I let it go.

I’m learning things about her. Small things. She takes her coffee black, no sugar. She listens to music when she works, always with headphones, always the same playlist. She bites her lip when she’s nervous. She never talks about her personal life. Never mentions a boyfriend or a girlfriend or anyone at all. She’s a closed book, and I want to open her.

Not that way. Not exactly. I mean, I want to know her. The real her. The one behind the calm exterior and the unreadable face. I want to know what she’s thinking when she looks at me. I want to know why she cares so much about this place. I want to know what happened six years ago that made her stay.

But she doesn’t let me in. Every time I get close, she pulls back. Every time I ask a personal question, she changes the subject. Every time I try to be friendly, she reminds me that we’re not friends. We’re colleagues. Nothing more.

It’s driving me crazy.

---

On the Friday before the launch, I find her in the conference room, alone.

It’s late. Everyone else has gone home. The office is dark except for the light in the conference room, spilling out into the hallway like a beacon. I should leave. Go home. Sleep. But I don’t.

I push open the door.

She’s sitting at the table, surrounded by printouts and sketches, her laptop open in front of her. She doesn’t look up.

“You’re still here,” I say.

“So are you.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Neither could I.”

I sit down across from her. She doesn’t object. Doesn’t tell me to leave. Just keeps working, fingers moving across the keyboard, eyes fixed on the screen.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Going over the presentation. Making sure everything’s perfect.”

“It’s already perfect. You’ve been over it a hundred times.”

“A hundred and one won’t hurt.”

I watch her for a minute. The way the light catches her face. The way she bites her lip. The way she doesn’t look at me, not even once.

“Why do you care so much?” I ask.

She stops typing. Looks up. “What?”

“This place. This job. Why do you care so much?”

She’s quiet for a long moment. Then she closes her laptop and leans back in her chair.

“Because it’s all I have,” she says.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I moved here six years ago with nothing. No job. No friends. No family. Just a suitcase and a dream. And this place gave me a chance. They hired me when no one else would. They trained me. They believed in me. And I’ve been here ever since.”

“That’s a long time.”

“It’s not that long.”

“It’s longer than I’ve stayed anywhere.”

She looks at me. Really looks at me. For the first time, I feel like she’s seeing me. Not the new guy. Not the creative director. Just me.

“Why don’t you stay anywhere?” she asks.

“I don’t know. I get restless. I get bored. I always think there’s something better out there.”

“Is there?”

“I haven’t found it yet.”

She nods. Slowly. Like she understands. Like she’s been there too.

“I used to be like that,” she says. “Before I came here. I moved around a lot. Never stayed anywhere longer than a year. But then I got here, and something clicked. I don’t know. It felt like home.”

“And you’ve been here ever since.”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t you ever want to leave? See something new?”

She shakes her head. “No. I’ve seen enough. I just want to be somewhere I belong.”

I don’t know what to say to that. So I don’t say anything. We just sit there, in the quiet, the rain tapping against the window, and for the first time since I got here, I feel like I’m not alone.

---

The launch is a success.

The client loves it. They love the design, the messaging, the whole package. They shake my hand and tell me I’m a genius, and I smile and nod and accept the credit, even though I know most of it belongs to Elena. She’s standing in the corner, watching, and when our eyes meet, she smiles. Just a small one. Just for a second. But it’s there.

After the client leaves, the office erupts. People are cheering, hugging, popping champagne. Someone puts on music. Someone else orders pizza. It’s a party, the kind of party that happens when you’ve been holding your breath for two weeks and finally get to exhale.

I find Elena by the window. She’s holding a glass of champagne, not drinking it, just holding it. Watching the rain.

“You did it,” I say.

“We did it.”

“You did it. I just stood there and looked pretty.”

She laughs. A real laugh. The first one I’ve heard from her. It’s a good sound. I want to hear it again.

“You did more than that,” she says. “You listened. That’s more than the last three did.”

“I had a good teacher.”

She looks at me. That look again. The one that makes me feel like she’s seeing right through me.

“What?” I say.

“Nothing. Just. You’re not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“Another asshole from New York who thinks he knows everything.”

“And what am I?”

She hesitates. Takes a sip of her champagne. “I don’t know yet.”

“Fair enough.”

We stand there for a while, watching the rain, listening to the party behind us. It’s nice. Comfortable. The kind of moment I usually run from. But I don’t want to run. Not this time.

“Elena,” I say.

“Yeah?”

“Why don’t you ever talk about yourself?”

She looks at me. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’ve been here for three weeks, and I know almost nothing about you. I know you’re from somewhere. I know you moved here six years ago. I know you care about this place. But that’s it. I don’t know anything real.”

She’s quiet for a moment. Then she says, “There’s not much to know.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“It’s true.”

“Everyone has a story.”

“Mine’s not very interesting.”

“Try me.”

She looks at me for a long moment. Then she sets her champagne down on the windowsill and crosses her arms.

“Fine,” she says. “You want to know something real? I’ll tell you something real.”

“Okay.”

“I was engaged once.”

I blink. “Engaged?”

“Yeah. Before I moved here. I was engaged to a guy named David. We were together for three years. I thought he was the one.”

“What happened?”

“He left me. Two weeks before the wedding. Said he wasn’t ready. Said he needed space. Said a lot of things that didn’t mean anything.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was a long time ago.”

“Still.”

She shrugs. “It is what it is. I moved here to get away from him. To start over. And I did. I built a life. A good one. I’m happy.”

“Are you?”

She looks at me. “What?”

“Are you happy?”

She doesn’t answer. Just looks at me with those dark eyes, and I can see something there. Something she’s been hiding. Something she doesn’t want me to see.

“I should go,” she says. “It’s late.”

“Elena.”

She stops. Turns back. “What?”

“Thank you. For telling me.”

She nods. Just once. Then she walks away, leaving me alone by the window, watching the rain.

---

I don’t sleep that night.

I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about her. The way she looked when she talked about David. The way her voice changed. The way she said “I’m happy” like she was trying to convince herself.

I want to know more. I want to know everything. I want to know what happened after David left. I want to know why she stayed in Portland. I want to know why she’s so afraid to let anyone in.

But more than that, I want to know why I care.

She’s just a colleague. A designer. Someone I work with. There’s no reason for me to be lying awake at night, thinking about her. No reason at all.

Except there is.

I like her. I like her more than I should. I like the way she challenges me. The way she doesn’t let me get away with anything. The way she looks at me like she’s trying to figure me out, the same way I’m trying to figure her out.

I like her.

And that’s a problem.

Because she works for me. Because I’m her boss. Because anything that happens between us would be complicated. Messy. Wrong.

But I can’t stop thinking about her.

---

Monday morning, I get to the office early. Elena’s already there, like always. She’s at her desk, headphones on, staring at her screen. She doesn’t look up when I walk past.

I go to my office. Close the door. Sit down. Stare at my laptop.

I can’t focus. My brain keeps drifting back to Friday night. The conversation. The way she looked at me. The way she said “I’m happy” like it was a question.

I need to talk to her. I need to clear the air. I need to tell her that nothing’s going to happen between us, that I’m her boss, that we need to keep things professional.

But I don’t know if that’s what I want to say.

At ten, there’s a knock on my door. A real knock. Three quick raps.

“Come in.”

It’s Elena. She’s got a folder in her hand. The same folder from before. The one that means bad news.

“What is it?” I ask.

She sets the folder on my desk. “The client called. They want to do another project.”

“Another project?”

“A bigger one. They want us to handle their entire brand. Everything. Website, social media, print, the works.”

“That’s huge.”

“I know.”

“That’s more than we can handle.”

“I know.”

“What did you tell them?”

She hesitates. Just for a second. Just long enough for me to see it.

“I told them we’d do it.”

I stare at her. “You what?”

“I told them we’d do it. I told them we’d need to hire more people, but we could do it.”

“You made that decision without asking me?”

“You weren’t here.”

“I was in a meeting.”

“I know. I checked.”

I stand up. She doesn’t step back. Doesn’t flinch. Just stands there, folder in hand, waiting.

“You can’t keep doing this,” I say.

“Doing what?”

“Making decisions without me. Going over my head. Acting like you’re the one in charge.”

“Someone has to be.”

“I’m the one in charge. I’m the creative director.”

“And I’m the senior designer. I’ve been here six years. I know this client better than anyone. I know what they need.”

“That doesn’t mean you get to make the call.”

“Then what am I supposed to do? Wait for you to show up? Wait for you to decide? The client was on the phone. They wanted an answer. I gave them one.”

“You should have told them you’d call back.”

“They weren’t going to wait.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do. I’ve been dealing with them for six years. I know how they operate. If I’d told them to wait, they would have called someone else.”

I want to be angry. I should be angry. She undermined me. Again. She made a decision that wasn’t hers to make. Again. She’s been here six years and she thinks she knows everything, and maybe she does, but that doesn’t mean she gets to run the show.

But I’m not angry. I’m something else. Something I don’t have a name for.

“Fine,” I say. “You made the call. Now we figure out how to make it work.”

“How?”

“We hire more people. We expand the team. We make it work.”

She looks at me for a long moment. Then she nods. Just once. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay. I’ll start looking for candidates.”

She turns to leave. I watch her go. She’s at the door when I say, “Elena.”

She stops. Doesn’t turn around. “What?”

“Next time, knock.”

She looks over her shoulder. Just a glance. Just enough.

“Next time,” she says, “be here.”

Then she’s gone.

---

The next few weeks are a blur.

We hire three new people. A copywriter, an art director, a project manager. The office gets even more crowded. The noise level goes up. The coffee gets worse.

Elena and I fall into a rhythm. We argue. We compromise. We argue again. We figure it out. It’s not easy, but it works. We work.

I learn more about her. Small things. She’s from Arizona. She has a sister she doesn’t talk to. She likes old movies and hates small talk. She’s allergic to cats. She’s afraid of flying.

She still doesn’t knock.

Every morning, she walks into my office without warning. Sometimes with coffee. Sometimes with questions. Sometimes with nothing at all, just standing there, looking at me, waiting for me to say something.

I’ve stopped telling her to knock. It doesn’t work. She just looks at me with those dark eyes and says, “You’re in my spot,” and I let it go.

I’m learning things about her. Small things. She takes her coffee black, no sugar. She listens to music when she works, always with headphones, always the same playlist. She bites her lip when she’s nervous. She never talks about her personal life. Never mentions a boyfriend or a girlfriend or anyone at all. She’s a closed book, and I want to open her.

Not that way. Not exactly. I mean, I want to know her. The real her. The one behind the calm exterior and the unreadable face. I want to know what she’s thinking when she looks at me. I want to know why she cares so much about this place. I want to know what happened six years ago that made her stay.

But she doesn’t let me in. Every time I get close, she pulls back. Every time I ask a personal question, she changes the subject. Every time I try to be friendly, she reminds me that we’re not friends. We’re colleagues. Nothing more.

It’s driving me crazy.

---

On a Thursday afternoon, I find her in the break room, alone.

She’s standing by the window, staring out at the rain. She doesn’t hear me come in. Doesn’t notice me until I’m right next to her.

“Hey,” I say.

She flinches. Just a little. Just enough.

“Sorry,” I say. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t.”

“You flinched.”

“I was thinking.”

“About what?”

She doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring out the window. The rain is coming down hard now, drumming against the glass, blurring the city into a gray watercolor.

“Elena.”

She turns to look at me. Her eyes are tired. Dark circles underneath. She’s been working too much. We all have.

“What?” she says.

“Are you okay?”

She blinks. “What?”

“Are you okay? You seem. I don’t know. Off.”

She looks at me for a long moment. Then she shakes her head. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’ve been quiet all week. You’re not eating. You’re not sleeping. I can tell.”

“You can tell?”

“I pay attention.”

She looks away. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t pay attention. Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

“I am.”

“Elena.”

She turns back to me. Her eyes are bright. Not with tears. With something else. Anger. Frustration. Something I can’t name.

“Why do you care?” she says.

“What?”

“Why do you care? Why do you keep asking me questions? Why do you keep trying to get close? Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to figure me out.”

I don’t know what to say. She’s right. I am trying to figure her out. I’ve been trying since the day she walked into my office and didn’t knock.

“Because I want to know you,” I say.

“Why?”

“Because you’re interesting. Because you’re smart. Because you’re the only person in this office who doesn’t treat me like I’m made of glass.”

She stares at me. The anger fades. Something else takes its place. Something softer. Something vulnerable.

“I don’t treat you like you’re made of glass,” she says.

“You treat me like I’m an inconvenience.”

“You are an inconvenience.”

“I know.”

She laughs. A small one. A real one. The first one in weeks.

“You’re impossible,” she says.

“I know.”

“You’re stubborn.”

“I know.”

“You’re. You’re.”

She doesn’t finish. Just looks at me. And I look at her. And for a moment, everything else falls away. The office. The noise. The rain. It’s just us.

“Elena,” I say.

“Don’t,” she says.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t say anything. Don’t ruin this.”

“Ruin what?”

“This. Whatever this is. Just. Don’t.”

I don’t say anything. I just stand there, looking at her, and she looks at me, and neither of us moves.

Then the door opens. Marcus walks in, headphones on, oblivious. He grabs a soda from the fridge and walks out without even noticing us.

The moment breaks. Elena steps back. Puts distance between us.

“I should get back to work,” she says.

“Elena.”

She stops. Doesn’t turn around. “What?”

“Nothing. Just. Nothing.”

She nods. Then she walks out, leaving me alone in the break room, staring at the rain.

---

That night, I can’t sleep.

I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about her. The way she looked at me. The way she said “don’t ruin this.” The way she stepped back when Marcus walked in.

She feels it too. I know she does. I can see it in the way she looks at me. The way she lingers in my office. The way she finds excuses to be near me.

But she won’t admit it. She won’t let herself. Because I’m her boss. Because it’s complicated. Because she’s been hurt before, and she’s afraid of being hurt again.

I get it. I do. But that doesn’t make it easier.

I want her. I want her more than I’ve wanted anyone in a long time. Not just physically. I mean, yes, physically. I’ve thought about that. The way her hair would feel between my fingers. The way her skin would taste. The way she’d sound when she came.

But it’s more than that. I want to know her. I want to understand her. I want to be the one she lets in.

And I can’t. Because I’m her boss. Because it’s wrong. Because she won’t let me.

---

The next morning, I get to the office early. Elena’s already there, like always. She’s at her desk, headphones on, staring at her screen. She doesn’t look up when I walk past.

I go to my office. Close the door. Sit down. Stare at my laptop.

I can’t focus. My brain keeps drifting back to last night. The conversation. The way she looked at me. The way she said “don’t ruin this.”

I need to talk to her. I need to clear the air. I need to tell her that nothing’s going to happen between us, that I’m her boss, that we need to keep things professional.

But I don’t know if that’s what I want to say.

At ten, there’s a knock on my door. A real knock. Three quick raps.

“Come in.”

It’s Elena. She’s got a folder in her hand. The same folder from before. The one that means bad news.

“What is it?” I ask.

She sets the folder on my desk. “The client called. They want to do another project.”

“Another project?”

“A bigger one. They want us to handle their entire brand. Everything. Website, social media, print, the works.”

“That’s huge.”

“I know.”

“That’s more than we can handle.”

“I know.”

“What did you tell them?”

She hesitates. Just for a second. Just long enough for me to see it.

“I told them we’d do it.”

I stare at her. “You what?”

“I told them we’d do it. I told them we’d need to hire more people, but we could do it.”

“You made that decision without asking me?”

“You weren’t here.”

“I was in a meeting.”

“I know. I checked.”

I stand up. She doesn’t step back. Doesn’t flinch. Just stands there, folder in hand, waiting.

“You can’t keep doing this,” I say.

“Doing what?”

“Making decisions without me. Going over my head. Acting like you’re the one in charge.”

“Someone has to be.”

“I’m the one in charge. I’m the creative director.”

“And I’m the senior designer. I’ve been here six years. I know this client better than anyone. I know what they need.”

“That doesn’t mean you get to make the call.”

“Then what am I supposed to do? Wait for you to show up? Wait for you to decide? The client was on the phone. They wanted an answer. I gave them one.”

“You should have told them you’d call back.”

“They weren’t going to wait.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do. I’ve been dealing with them for six years. I know how they operate. If I’d told them to wait, they would have called someone else.”

I want to be angry. I should be angry. She undermined me. Again. She made a decision that wasn’t hers to make. Again. She’s been here six years and she thinks she knows everything, and maybe she does, but that doesn’t mean she gets to run the show.

But I’m not angry. I’m something else. Something I don’t have a name for.

“Fine,” I say. “You made the call. Now we figure out how to make it work.”

“How?”

“We hire more people. We expand the team. We make it work.”

She looks at me for a long moment. Then she nods. Just once. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay. I’ll start looking for candidates.”

She turns to leave. I watch her go. She’s at the door when I say, “Elena.”

She stops. Doesn’t turn around. “What?”

“Next time, knock.”

She looks over her shoulder. Just a glance. Just enough.

“Next time,” she says, “be here.”

Then she’s gone.

---

The next few weeks are a blur.

We hire three new people. A copywriter, an art director, a project manager. The office gets even more crowded. The noise level goes up. The coffee gets worse.

Elena and I fall into a rhythm. We argue. We compromise. We argue again. We figure it out. It’s not easy, but it works. We work.

I learn more about her. Small things. She’s from Arizona. She has a sister she doesn’t talk to. She likes old movies and hates small talk. She’s allergic to cats. She’s afraid of flying.

She still doesn’t knock.

Every morning, she walks into my office without warning. Sometimes with coffee. Sometimes with questions. Sometimes with nothing at all, just standing there, looking at me, waiting for me to say something.

I’ve stopped telling her to knock. It doesn’t work. She just looks at me with those dark eyes and says, “You’re in my spot,” and I let it go.

I’m learning things about her. Small things. She takes her coffee black, no sugar. She listens to music when she works, always with headphones, always the same playlist. She bites her lip when she’s nervous. She never talks about her personal life. Never mentions a boyfriend or a girlfriend or anyone at all. She’s a closed book, and I want to open her.

Not that way. Not exactly. I mean, I want to know her. The real her. The one behind the calm exterior and the unreadable face. I want to know what she’s thinking when she looks at me. I want to know why she cares so much about this place. I want to know what happened six years ago that made her stay.

But she doesn’t let me in. Every time I get close, she pulls back. Every time I ask a personal question, she changes the subject. Every time I try to be friendly, she reminds me that we’re not friends. We’re colleagues. Nothing more.

It’s driving me crazy.

---

On a Thursday afternoon, I find her in the break room, alone.

She’s standing by the window, staring out at the rain. She doesn’t hear me come in. Doesn’t notice me until I’m right next to her.

“Hey,” I say.

She flinches. Just a little. Just enough.

“Sorry,” I say. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t.”

“You flinched.”

“I was thinking.”

“About what?”

She doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring out the window. The rain is coming down hard now, drumming against the glass, blurring the city into a gray watercolor.

“Elena.”

She turns to look at me. Her eyes are tired. Dark circles underneath. She’s been working too much. We all have.

“What?” she says.

“Are you okay?”

She blinks. “What?”

“Are you okay? You seem. I don’t know. Off.”

She looks at me for a long moment. Then she shakes her head. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’ve been quiet all week. You’re not eating. You’re not sleeping. I can tell.”

“You can tell?”

“I pay attention.”

She looks away. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t pay attention. Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

“I am.”

“Elena.”

She turns back to me. Her eyes are bright. Not with tears. With something else. Anger. Frustration. Something I can’t name.

“Why do you care?” she says.

“What?”

“Why do you care? Why do you keep asking me questions? Why do you keep trying to get close? Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to figure me out.”

I don’t know what to say. She’s right. I am trying to figure her out. I’ve been trying since the day she walked into my office and didn’t knock.

“Because I want to know you,” I say.

“Why?”

“Because you’re interesting. Because you’re smart. Because you’re the only person in this office who doesn’t treat me like I’m made of glass.”

She stares at me. The anger fades. Something else takes its place. Something softer. Something vulnerable.

“I don’t treat you like you’re made of glass,” she says.

“You treat me like I’m an inconvenience.”

“You are an inconvenience.”

“I know.”

She laughs. A small one. A real one. The first one in weeks.

“You’re impossible,” she says.

“I know.”

“You’re stubborn.”

“I know.”

“You’re. You’re.”

She doesn’t finish. Just looks at me. And I look at her. And for a moment, everything else falls away. The office. The noise. The rain. It’s just us.

“Elena,” I say.

“Don’t,” she says.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t say anything. Don’t ruin this.”

“Ruin what?”

“This. Whatever this is. Just. Don’t.”

I don’t say anything. I just stand there, looking at her, and she looks at me, and neither of us moves.

Then the door opens. Marcus walks in, headphones on, oblivious. He grabs a soda from the fridge and walks out without even noticing us.

The moment breaks. Elena steps back. Puts distance between us.

“I should get back to work,” she says.

“Elena.”

She stops. Doesn’t turn around. “What?”

“Nothing. Just. Nothing.”

She nods. Then she walks out, leaving me alone in the break room, staring at the rain.

---

That night, I can’t sleep.

I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about her. The way she looked at me. The way she said “don’t ruin this.” The way she stepped back when Marcus walked in.

She feels it too. I know she does. I can see it in the way she looks at me. The way she lingers in my office. The way she finds excuses to be near me.

But she won’t admit it. She won’t let herself. Because I’m her boss. Because it’s complicated. Because she’s been hurt before, and she’s afraid of being hurt again.

I get it. I do. But that doesn’t make it easier.

I want her. I want her more than I’ve wanted anyone in a long time. Not just physically. I mean, yes, physically. I’ve thought about that. The way her hair would feel between my fingers. The way her skin would taste. The way she’d sound when she came.

But it’s more than that. I want to know her. I want to understand her. I want to be the one she lets in.

And I can’t. Because I’m her boss. Because it’s wrong. Because she won’t let me.

---

The next morning, I get to the office early. Elena’s already there, like always. She’s at her desk, headphones on, staring at her screen. She doesn’t look up when I walk past.

I go to my office. Close the door. Sit down. Stare at my laptop.

I can’t focus. My brain keeps drifting back to last night. The conversation. The way she looked at me. The way she said “don’t ruin this.”

I need to talk to her. I need to clear the air. I need to tell her that nothing’s going to happen between us, that I’m her boss, that we need to keep things professional.

But I don’t know if that’s what I want to say.

At ten, there’s a knock on my door. A real knock. Three quick raps.

“Come in.”

It’s Elena. She’s got a folder in her hand. The same folder from before. The one that means bad news.

“What is it?” I ask.

She sets the folder on my desk. “The client called. They want to do another project.”

“Another project?”

“A bigger one. They want us to handle their entire brand. Everything. Website, social media, print, the works.”

“That’s huge.”

“I know.”

“That’s more than we can handle.”

“I know.”

“What did you tell them?”

She hesitates. Just for a second. Just long enough for me to see it.

“I told them we’d do it.”

I stare at her. “You what?”

“I told them we’d do it. I told them we’d need to hire more people, but we could do it.”

“You made that decision without asking me?”

“You weren’t here.”

“I was in a meeting.”

“I know. I checked.”

I stand up. She doesn’t step back. Doesn’t flinch. Just stands there, folder in hand, waiting.

“You can’t keep doing this,” I say.

“Doing what?”

“Making decisions without me. Going over my head. Acting like you’re the one in charge.”

“Someone has to be.”

“I’m the one in charge. I’m the creative director.”

“And I’m the senior designer. I’ve been here six years. I know this client better than anyone. I know what they need.”

“That doesn’t mean you get to make the call.”

“Then what am I supposed to do? Wait for you to show up? Wait for you to decide? The client was on the phone. They wanted an answer. I gave them one.”

“You should have told them you’d call back.”

“They weren’t going to wait.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do. I’ve been dealing with them for six years. I know how they operate. If I’d told them to wait, they would have called someone else.”

I want to be angry. I should be angry. She undermined me. Again. She made a decision that wasn’t hers to make. Again. She’s been here six years and she thinks she knows everything, and maybe she does, but that doesn’t mean she gets to run the show.

But I’m not angry. I’m something else. Something I don’t have a name for.

“Fine,” I say. “You made the call. Now we figure out how to make it work.”

“How?”

“We hire more people. We expand the team. We make it work.”

She looks at me for a long moment. Then she nods. Just once. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay. I’ll start looking for candidates.”

She turns to leave. I watch her go. She’s at the door when I say, “Elena.”

She stops. Doesn’t turn around. “What?”

“Next time, knock.”

She looks over her shoulder. Just a glance. Just enough.

“Next time,” she says, “be here.”

Then she’s gone.

---

The next few weeks are a blur.

We hire three new people. A copywriter, an art director, a project manager. The office gets even more crowded. The noise level goes up. The coffee gets worse.

Elena and I fall into a rhythm. We argue. We compromise. We argue again. We figure it out. It’s not easy, but it works. We work.

I learn more about her. Small things. She’s from Arizona. She has a sister she doesn’t talk to. She likes old movies and hates small talk. She’s allergic to cats. She’s afraid of flying.

She still doesn’t knock.

Every morning, she walks into my office without warning. Sometimes with coffee. Sometimes with questions. Sometimes with nothing at all, just standing there, looking at me, waiting for me to say something.

I’ve stopped telling her to knock. It doesn’t work. She just looks at me with those dark eyes and says, “You’re in my spot,” and I let it go.

I’m learning things about her. Small things. She takes her coffee black, no sugar. She listens to music when she works, always with headphones, always the same playlist. She bites her lip when she’s nervous. She never talks about her personal life. Never mentions a boyfriend or a girlfriend or anyone at all. She’s a closed book, and I want to open her.

Not that way. Not exactly. I mean, I want to know her. The real her. The one behind the calm exterior and the unreadable face. I want to know what she’s thinking when she looks at me. I want to know why she cares so much about this place. I want to know what happened six years ago that made her stay.

But she doesn’t let me in. Every time I get close, she pulls back. Every time I ask a personal question, she changes the subject. Every time I try to be friendly, she reminds me that we’re not friends. We’re colleagues. Nothing more.

It’s driving me crazy.

---

On a Thursday afternoon, I find her in the break room, alone.

She’s standing by the window, staring out at the rain. She doesn’t hear me come in. Doesn’t notice me until I’m right next to her.

“Hey,” I say.

She flinches. Just a little. Just enough.

“Sorry,” I say. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t.”

“You flinched.”

“I was thinking.”

“About what?”

She doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring out the window. The rain is coming down hard now, drumming against the glass, blurring the city into a gray watercolor.

“Elena.”

She turns to look at me. Her eyes are tired. Dark circles underneath. She’s been working too much. We all have.

“What?” she says.

“Are you okay?”

She blinks. “What?”

“Are you okay? You seem. I don’t know. Off.”

She looks at me for a long moment. Then she shakes her head. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’ve been quiet all week. You’re not eating. You’re not sleeping. I can tell.”

“You can tell?”

“I pay attention.”

She looks away. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t pay attention. Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

“I am.”

“Elena.”

She turns back to me. Her eyes are bright. Not with tears. With something else. Anger. Frustration. Something I can’t name.

“Why do you care?” she says.

“What?”

“Why do you care? Why do you keep asking me questions? Why do you keep trying to get close? Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to figure me out.”

I don’t know what to say. She’s right. I am trying to figure her out. I’ve been trying since the day she walked into my office and didn’t knock.

“Because I want to know you,” I say.

“Why?”

“Because you’re interesting. Because you’re smart. Because you’re the only person in this office who doesn’t treat me like I’m made of glass.”

She stares at me. The anger fades. Something else takes its place. Something softer. Something vulnerable.

“I don’t treat you like you’re made of glass,” she says.

“You treat me like I’m an inconvenience.”

“You are an inconvenience.”

“I know.”

She laughs. A small one. A real one. The first one in weeks.

“You’re impossible,” she says.

“I know.”

“You’re stubborn.”

“I know.”

“You’re. You’re.”

She doesn’t finish. Just looks at me. And I look at her. And for a moment, everything else falls away. The office. The noise. The rain. It’s just us.

“Elena,” I say.

“Don’t,” she says.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t say anything. Don’t ruin this.”

“Ruin what?”

“This. Whatever this is. Just. Don’t.”

I don’t say anything. I just stand there, looking at her, and she looks at me, and neither of us moves.

Then the door opens. Marcus walks in, headphones on, oblivious. He grabs a soda from the fridge and walks out without even noticing us.

The moment breaks. Elena steps back. Puts distance between us.

“I should get back to work,” she says.

“Elena.”

She stops. Doesn’t turn around. “What?”

“Nothing. Just. Nothing.”

She nods. Then she walks out, leaving me alone in the break room, staring at the rain.

---

That night, I can’t sleep.

I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about her. The way she looked at me. The way she said “don’t ruin this.” The way she stepped back when Marcus walked in.

She feels it too. I know she does. I can see it in the way she looks at me. The way she lingers in my office. The way she finds excuses to be near me.

But she won’t admit it. She won’t let herself. Because I’m her boss. Because it’s complicated. Because she’s been hurt before, and she’s afraid of being hurt again.

I get it. I do. But that doesn’t make it easier.

I want her. I want her more than I’ve wanted anyone in a long time. Not just physically. I mean, yes, physically. I’ve thought about that. The way her hair would feel between my fingers. The way her skin would taste. The way she’d sound when she came.

But it’s more than that. I want to know her. I want to understand her. I want to be the one she lets in.

And I can’t. Because I’m her boss. Because it’s wrong. Because she won’t let me.

---

The next morning, I get to the office early. Elena’s already there, like always. She’s at her desk, headphones on, staring at her screen. She doesn’t look up when I walk past.

I go to my office. Close the door. Sit down. Stare at my laptop.

I can’t focus. My brain keeps drifting back to last night. The conversation. The way she looked at me. The way she said “don’t ruin this.”

I need to talk to her. I need to clear the air. I need to tell her that nothing’s going to happen between us, that I’m her boss, that we need to keep things professional.

But I don’t know if that’s what I want to say.

At ten, there’s a knock on my door. A real knock. Three quick raps.

“Come in.”

It’s Elena. She’s got a folder in her hand. The same folder from before. The one that means bad news.

“What is it?” I ask.

She sets the folder on my desk. “The client called. They want to do another project.”

“Another project?”

“A bigger one. They want us to handle their entire brand. Everything. Website, social media, print, the works.”

“That’s huge.”

“I know.”

“That’s more than we can handle.”

“I know.”

“What did you tell them?”

She hesitates. Just for a second. Just long enough for me to see it.

“I told them we’d do it.”

I stare at her. “You what?”

“I told them we’d do it. I told them we’d need to hire more people, but we could do it.”

“You made that decision without asking me?”

“You weren’t here.”

“I was in a meeting.”

“I know. I checked.”

I stand up. She doesn’t step back. Doesn’t flinch. Just stands there, folder in hand, waiting.

“You can’t keep doing this,” I say.

“Doing what?”

“Making decisions without me. Going over my head. Acting like you’re the one in charge.”

“Someone has to be.”

“I’m the one in charge. I’m the creative director.”

“And I’m the senior designer. I’ve been here six years. I know this client better than anyone. I know what they need.”

“That doesn’t mean you get to make the call.”

“Then what am I supposed to do? Wait for you to show up? Wait for you to decide? The client was on the phone. They wanted an answer. I gave them one.”

“You should have told them you’d call back.”

“They weren’t going to wait.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do. I’ve been dealing with them for six years. I know how they operate. If I’d told them to wait, they would have called someone else.”

I want to be angry. I should be angry. She undermined me. Again. She made a decision that wasn’t hers to make. Again. She’s been here six years and she thinks she knows everything, and maybe she does, but that doesn’t mean she gets to run the show.

But I’m not angry. I’m something else. Something I don’t have a name for.

“Fine,” I say. “You made the call. Now we figure out how to make it work.”

“How?”

“We hire more people. We expand the team. We make it work.”

She looks at me for a long moment. Then she nods. Just once. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay. I’ll start looking for candidates.”

She turns to leave. I watch her go. She’s at the door when I say, “Elena.”

She stops. Doesn’t turn around. “What?”

“Next time, knock.”

She looks over her shoulder. Just a glance. Just enough.

“Next time,” she says, “be here.”

Then she’s gone.

---

The next few weeks are a blur.

We hire three new people. A copywriter, an art director, a project manager. The office gets even more crowded. The noise level goes up. The coffee gets worse.

Elena and I fall into a rhythm. We argue. We compromise. We argue again. We figure it out. It’s not easy, but it works. We work.

I learn more about her. Small things. She’s from Arizona. She has a sister she doesn’t talk to. She likes old movies and hates small talk. She’s allergic to cats. She’s afraid of flying.

She still doesn’t knock.

Every morning, she walks into my office without warning. Sometimes with coffee. Sometimes with questions. Sometimes with nothing at all, just standing there, looking at me, waiting for me to say something.

I’ve stopped telling her to knock. It doesn’t work. She just looks at me with those dark eyes and says, “You’re in my spot,” and I let it go.

I’m learning things about her. Small things. She takes her coffee black, no sugar. She listens to music when she works, always with headphones, always the same playlist. She bites her lip when she’s nervous. She never talks about her personal life. Never mentions a boyfriend or a girlfriend or anyone at all. She’s a closed book, and I want to open her.

Not that way. Not exactly. I mean, I want to know her. The real her. The one behind the calm exterior and the unreadable face. I want to know what she’s thinking when she looks at me. I want to know why she cares so much about this place. I want to know what happened six years ago that made her stay.

But she doesn’t let me in. Every time I get close, she pulls back. Every time I ask a personal question, she changes the subject. Every time I try to be friendly, she reminds me that we’re not friends. We’re colleagues. Nothing more.

It’s driving me crazy.

---

On a Thursday afternoon, I find her in the break room, alone.

She’s standing by the window, staring out at the rain. She doesn’t hear me come in. Doesn’t notice me until I’m right next to her.

“Hey,” I say.

She flinches. Just a little. Just enough.

“Sorry,” I say. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t.”

“You flinched.”

“I was thinking.”

“About what?”

She doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring out the window. The rain is coming down hard now, drumming against the glass, blurring the city into a gray watercolor.

“Elena.”

She turns to look at me. Her eyes are tired. Dark circles underneath. She’s been working too much. We all have.

“What?” she says.

“Are you okay?”

She blinks. “What?”

“Are you okay? You seem. I don’t know. Off.”

She looks at me for a long moment. Then she shakes her head. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’ve been quiet all week. You’re not eating. You’re not sleeping. I can tell.”

“You can tell?”

“I pay attention.”

She looks away. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t pay attention. Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

“I am.”

“Elena.”

She turns back to me. Her eyes are bright. Not with tears. With something else. Anger. Frustration. Something I can’t name.

“Why do you care?” she says.

“What?”

“Why do you care? Why do you keep asking me questions? Why do you keep trying to get close? Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to figure me out.”

I don’t know what to say. She’s right. I am trying to figure her out. I’ve been trying since the day she walked into my office and didn’t knock.

“Because I want to know you,” I say.

“Why?”

“Because you’re interesting. Because you’re smart. Because you’re the only person in this office who doesn’t treat me like I’m made of glass.”

She stares at me. The anger fades. Something else takes its place. Something softer. Something vulnerable.

“I don’t treat you like you’re made of glass,” she says.

“You treat me like I’m an inconvenience.”

“You are an inconvenience.”

“I know.”

She laughs. A small one. A real one. The first one in weeks.

“You’re impossible,” she says.

“I know.”

“You’re stubborn.”

“I know.”

“You’re. You’re.”

She doesn’t finish. Just looks at me. And I look at her. And for a moment, everything else falls away. The office. The noise. The rain. It’s just us.

“Elena,” I say.

“Don’t,” she says.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t say anything. Don’t ruin this.”

“Ruin what?”

“This. Whatever this is. Just. Don’t.”

I don’t say anything. I just stand there, looking at her, and she looks at me, and neither of us moves.

Then the door opens. Marcus walks in, headphones on, oblivious. He grabs a soda from the fridge and walks out without even noticing us.

The moment breaks. Elena steps back. Puts distance between us.

“I should get back to work,” she says.

“Elena.”

She stops. Doesn’t turn around. “What?”

“Nothing. Just. Nothing.”

She nods. Then she walks out, leaving me alone in the break room, staring at the rain.

---

That night, I can’t sleep.

I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about her. The way she looked at me. The way she said “don’t ruin this.” The way she stepped back when Marcus walked in.

She feels it too. I know she does. I can see it in the way she looks at me. The way she lingers in my office. The way she finds excuses to be near me.

But she won’t admit it. She won’t let herself. Because I’m her boss. Because it’s complicated. Because she’s been hurt before, and she’s afraid of being hurt again.

I get it. I do. But that doesn’t make it easier.

I want her. I want her more than I’ve wanted anyone in a long time. Not just physically. I mean, yes, physically. I’ve thought about that. The way her hair would feel between my fingers. The way her skin would taste. The way she’d sound when she came.

But it’s more than that. I want to know her. I want to understand her. I want to be the one she lets in.

And I can’t. Because I’m her boss. Because it’s wrong. Because she won’t let me.

---

The next morning, I get to the office early. Elena’s already there, like always. She’s at her desk, headphones on, staring at her screen. She doesn’t look up when I walk past.

I go to my office. Close the door. Sit down. Stare at my laptop.

I can’t focus. My brain keeps drifting back to last night. The conversation. The way she looked at me. The way she said “don’t ruin this.”

I need to talk to her. I need to clear the air. I need to tell her that nothing’s going to happen between us, that I’m her boss, that we need to keep things professional.

But I don’t know if that’s what I want to say.

At ten, there’s a knock on my door. A real knock. Three quick raps.

“Come in.”

It’s Elena. She’s got a folder in her hand. The same folder from before. The one that means bad news.

“What is it?” I ask.

She sets the folder on my desk. “The client called. They want to do another project.”

“Another project?”

“A bigger one. They want us to handle their entire brand. Everything. Website, social media, print, the works.”

“That’s huge.”

“I know.”

“That’s more than we can handle.”

“I know.”

“What did you tell them?”

She hesitates. Just for a second. Just long enough for me to see it.

“I told them we’d do it.”

I stare at her. “You what?”

“I told them we’d do it. I told them we’d need to hire more people, but we could do it.”

“You made that decision without asking me?”

“You weren’t here.”

“I was in a meeting.”

“I know. I checked.”

I stand up. She doesn’t step back. Doesn’t flinch. Just stands there, folder in hand, waiting.

“You can’t keep doing this,” I say.

“Doing what?”

“Making decisions without me. Going over my head. Acting like you’re the one in charge.”

“Someone has to be.”

“I’m the one in charge. I’m the creative director.”

“And I’m the senior designer. I’ve been here six years. I know this client better than anyone. I know what they need.”

“That doesn’t mean you get to make the call.”

“Then what am I supposed to do? Wait for you to show up? Wait for you to decide? The client was on the phone. They wanted an answer. I gave them one.”

“You should have told them you’d call back.”

“They weren’t going to wait.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do. I’ve been dealing with them for six years. I know how they operate. If I’d told them to wait, they would have called someone else.”

I want to be angry. I should be angry. She undermined me. Again. She made a decision that wasn’t hers to make. Again. She’s been here six years and she thinks she knows everything, and maybe she does, but that doesn’t mean she gets to run the show.

But I’m not angry. I’m something else. Something I don’t have a name for.

“Fine,” I say. “You made the call. Now we figure out how to make it work.”

“How?”

“We hire more people. We expand the team. We make it work.”

She looks at me for a long moment. Then she nods. Just once. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay. I’ll start looking for candidates.”

She turns to leave. I watch her go. She’s at the door when I say, “Elena.”

She stops. Doesn’t turn around. “What?”

“Next time, knock.”

She looks over her shoulder. Just a glance. Just enough.

“Next time,” she says, “be here.”

Then she’s gone.