By mid-afternoon, I’ve booked a conference room on the ninth floor, away from everyone. Away fromhim.I lose myself in design sketches, caffeine, and the hum of my laptop.
Two emails from Henry come through — both asking where I am. I ignore them.
Then the door creaks open, and without even looking up, I know it’s him. His presence fills the space before he even speaks.
“There you are,” he says, voice gentle. “I’ve been looking for you.”
I keep my eyes on the blueprint in front of me. “Sorry. I wanted to work somewhere I wouldn’t get distracted.”
There’s a pause — a knowing one. “How long have you been at this?” he asks, concern edging into his tone.
“I don’t know. A few hours, maybe? I’m stuck on the structure for the bathroom layout. It’s not working.” My words spill out in a rapid jumble.
He comes closer, resting a hand on mine. “Matilda… how many coffees have you had?”
“Um. Six?”
“Right. That’s it.” His voice softens but holds authority. “You’re done for today. Go home, shower, eat something. I’ll help you when I come over.”
“No!” I blurt, sharper than intended. His expression falters, and guilt crashes over me. “Sorry — I didn’t mean that. I just… need to focus. And you’re a bit of a distraction.”
He lets out a breath, taking a small step back. “Right. Well, I still need to approve the project, so I’ll have to be involved at some point.”
“Of course,” I say quickly. “I just got carried away. I’ll send you the updates tomorrow.”
He studies me for a moment, that unreadable look in his eyes. Then he nods. “Okay. But I’m saying this as your boss now — go home. Eat. Rest. You won’t do your best work like this.”
He hesitates, then adds quietly, “I’ll stay at mine tonight. Give you space to work.”
The words land heavier than I expect.
“That… sounds perfect,” I manage, forcing a smile.
He gives me one last look — half proud, half hurt — before heading for the door.
And when he’s gone, I realise just how much space he fills.
Thirty Seven
Henry
“Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in.”
Jas grins from behind the bar as I walk through the door of her restaurant. The smell of oak, garlic, and good whiskey hits me like nostalgia. I used to come here almost every night in the early days — when she’d just opened the place and I was still figuring out who I was. But lately, life’s been busier. Work, responsibility… Matilda. She’s filled up the space that used to be hollow.
“Evening, Jasmine,” I say, taking a seat at the bar.
“Ergh, don’t call me that.” She flicks her cloth at me. “What’ll it be?”
“Whiskey. Double.”
“Coming right up.” She grabs the good bottle from the top shelf — the one she only uses for friends, not customers. “So, what brings you slumming it with us commoners tonight?”
“Do I need a reason to have a drink with my best friend?”
Her brow lifts — that same look she’s been giving me since we were teenagers whenever I lied. I take a sip instead of answering.
“Uh-huh,” she says. “Okay, I’ll play along. How’s life, Mr Architect Extraordinaire?”
