His thumb presses harder into the door, the wood creaking faintly. 'One more thing,' he says, low enough that she leans in without meaning to. 'The coffee. Black. No sugar.' He doesn't blink. She feels the command settle in her chest like a second signature, and her fingers tighten on the frame before she nods.
His eyes hold hers a beat longer than necessary, cataloging her response. The creak of the door eases as he relaxes the pressure, but he doesn't step back. Doesn't give her room to leave.
'Seven AM,' he says. 'My office. Not the lobby.'
She should step out now. The hallway is three feet behind her, empty and cool and safe. Instead she stays in the doorframe, feeling the heat radiating off him through the gap. 'Anything else?'
The corner of his mouth moves. Not quite a smile. 'You'll find a folder on the desk. Client profiles for tomorrow's meeting. I expect you to know them by eight.'
'That's an hour.'
'Then you'd better start now.' He steps back, finally, and the space between them widens. His hand finds the edge of the door, and she watches him decide whether to close it. 'Goodnight, Eva.'
Her name in his mouth sounds different than it did an hour ago. Heavier. Like he's testing how it fits.
'Goodnight, Marcus.'
She turns before he can see her exhale. The hallway stretches ahead, fluorescent lights humming, and she walks toward the elevator with her spine straight and her pulse hammering against her collarbone. She doesn't look back. She can feel his gaze on her shoulder blades all the way to the elevator doors.
The elevator dings. She steps inside. Only when the doors slide closed does she let her forehead rest against the cold metal wall, eyes closed, breath slow and deliberate.
Black. No sugar.
She already knows she'll be early.
She already knows she'll be early. But that's not what's keeping her pressed against the cold metal wall of the elevator, eyes closed, breath slow and deliberate. It's the way he said her name. Eva. Not sharp like the rest of his words. Not a command. Something heavier—like he'd rolled it across his tongue before letting it fall, testing how it landed in the space between them. She lets the echo roll through her again, feels it settle somewhere deep in her chest, warm and unfamiliar, and presses her palm flat against the wall to steady herself.
The elevator shudders to a stop. The doors slide open onto the lobby—cold, empty, fluorescent-lit, exactly the kind of neutral ground she needs. She pushes off the wall and steps out, heels clicking against marble. The night guard looks up from his phone, nods once. She nods back, keeps walking, her mind still caught on that single syllable, the weight of it pressing against the inside of her ribs.
Her car is the only one left in the lot. She slides into the driver's seat, closes the door, and sits. Doesn't start the engine. Just sits in the dark, hands on the wheel, replaying the moment: his thumb against the doorframe, the creak of wood, the way his voice dropped when he said it. Eva. Not a question. Not an order. A statement. Like he'd already decided what she meant to him—and was daring her to figure it out.
She lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding, and for a long moment she just stares at the dashboard, the dim green glow of the clock reading 10:47 PM. Eight hours until she's back in his office. She's already planning her route, calculating the time it will take to get there by 6:30, to have his coffee—black, no sugar—waiting on his desk before he even walks through the door.
She turns the key. The engine hums to life, and she pulls out of the lot, the city lights blurring past. Her apartment is fifteen minutes away—a small studio she can barely afford, but it's hers. She'll shower. She'll lay out her clothes. She'll set three alarms. And she'll lie awake for hours, rerunning the sound of his voice saying her name, trying to figure out why it made her chest feel hollow and full at the same time.
At home, she drops her bag on the kitchen counter. The kettle's still warm from this morning. She fills it, clicks it on, leans against the counter while the water begins to churn. The apartment is silent except for the hum. She closes her eyes and there it is again—Eva, low and rough, like a secret he wasn't supposed to share.
She opens her eyes. The kettle clicks off. Steam rises. She pours water over a tea bag, watches the color bloom, and wraps her hands around the mug. The warmth seeps into her palms, grounding her.
She doesn't drink it. Just holds it, standing in the dim kitchen, and lets the silence stretch. Tomorrow, she'll be early. She'll have his coffee. She'll learn those client profiles until the names blur. And when he says her name again—because he will—she'll be ready for it.
She sets the mug down, untouched, and heads for the shower.
She reaches the bathroom doorway and stops. Her hand finds the frame—the same way it found his doorframe an hour ago. The same instinct. Her fingers press into the wood as if checking that this threshold is real, that she's allowed to cross it.
The shower tiles are cold gray, the mirror empty. She should step in. Turn the water on. Let steam fill the space until she can't think anymore. But her body won't move. She's stuck in the doorway, replaying it: Eva, low and rough, the way his voice dropped like he was letting her hear something he'd never said out loud before.
She closes her eyes. The bathroom light hums overhead. And the memory sharpens—not the word itself, but what came before it. The way his thumb pressed harder into the door. The creak of wood. The way he'd looked at her like she was the only fixed point in a room that kept shifting.
Eva.
Not a question. Not a command. A discovery. Like he'd found something in the sound of her name that he hadn't expected—and now it was lodged somewhere under his ribs, and he didn't know what to do with it.
She opens her eyes. Her reflection stares back from the mirror, pale in the fluorescent light. She looks the same as she did this morning. Same severe bun, same gold earrings, same white button-up now wrinkled from the day. But something's shifted inside her chest. A pressure she can't name. A heat she can't cool.
She steps into the bathroom. Her hand drops from the doorframe. She reaches for the shower knob and turns it. The water hisses, then streams, steam beginning to curl against the cold tile. She doesn't undress. Just stands there, watching the steam rise, letting the sound fill the small room.
His voice is still in her ears. Low. Rough. Like gravel and heat. Eva. She presses a hand to her stomach. There's a flutter there she refuses to name, a tremor that travels up through her chest and settles at the base of her throat.
The mirror begins to fog. She watches her reflection disappear, layer by layer, until there's nothing left but an outline. A shape. Someone who might not recognize herself tomorrow.
She finally undresses—slow, mechanical, each button an act of will. The water scalds her shoulders when she steps under it. She lets it. Lets the heat burn away the cold from the walk through the lobby, from the car, from the long silence in her kitchen. Lets it scald the memory of his voice from her skin.
It doesn't work. The voice is deeper than her skin. It's in her bones, settled like a weight she can't shake. She presses her forehead against the shower wall and lets the water run over her, and she realizes—somewhere between the kettle and the bathroom door—that eight hours is too long. That she'd already be dressed if she could. That she's already counting the minutes until she hears him say it again.
Eva.
The water falls. The steam thickens. And she lets herself feel it—just for a moment, just in the dark of her own private heat—the way it made her chest hollow and full at the same time. The way it made her want to hear him say it again, and again, and again.
Her hand rises before she tells it to. Fingers find her throat—the hollow at the base, where her pulse beats close to the surface. The skin is hot and slick from the steam, and she presses gently, feeling the shape of it, the vulnerable dip where his voice is still lodged. She holds there, palm curved against her own neck, and the pressure is grounding and strange all at once—like she's checking that the sound is still inside her, that she hasn't imagined it.
The water runs over her shoulders, down her spine, pooling at her feet. She doesn't move. Her hand stays at her throat, thumb resting against her pulse point, and she feels it jump under her own touch. A small, insistent rhythm. Eva. Eva. Eva. The word has become a heartbeat now, syncopated and urgent, and she can't tell if she's imagining it or if the memory has rewired something fundamental inside her chest.
Her fingers trace up—slow, exploratory—following the line of her jaw, the curve of her chin, the corner of her mouth. She's not sure what she's looking for. Maybe proof that the word left a mark. Maybe evidence that she's still the same person who walked into his office seven hours ago. Her lips part under her own touch, and she catches the taste of steam and salt and something raw she doesn't recognize.
She lets her hand fall.
The water drums against her shoulders. The mirror is completely fogged now, a blank white slate. She's alone in the small bright room, and yet she feels watched—by the echo of his gray eyes, by the weight of his voice still turning in her chest, by the strange heat that hasn't cooled despite the scalding spray.
She turns off the water.
The silence crashes in. Dripping. The hum of the exhaust fan. Her own breathing, shallow and too fast. She stands in the cooling air, water streaming down her thighs, and she realizes she's gripping the shower curtain rod, knuckles white, as if bracing against a blow that's already landed.
She lets go. Her hand leaves a damp print on the metal.
She steps out, reaches for a towel, and wraps it around herself—tight, like armor. The fabric rough against her skin. She doesn't look at her reflection. Doesn't need to. She knows what she'd see: the same face, the same body, but something behind her eyes that wasn't there this morning. A door that cracked open and won't close all the way.
She runs her hand over the fogged mirror, clearing a single streak. Her reflection appears in fragments—one eye, the curve of her cheek, the place where her collarbone meets her throat. The hollow she pressed. The place his voice is still buried.
She touches it again. Lightly this time. A question more than a touch. And she knows, with a certainty that makes her stomach drop, that she'll be early tomorrow. That she'll have his coffee. That she'll stand in his doorway and wait for him to say her name—just to feel it land again. Just to know she didn't imagine it. Just to feel the ache that comes after, hollow and full and completely hers.
She presses her palm flat against the fogged mirror. The heat of her skin meets the cool glass, and the condensation smears beneath her hand, pulling her reflection back into view in fragments—first her eyes, dark and too bright, then the hollow of her throat where her pulse beats visible through the skin. She holds still, watching herself watch herself, and the woman in the glass looks different than she did this morning. Softer at the edges. Hungrier underneath.
Her hand slides down, leaving a clean streak through the fog. The glass is cold against her palm, and she spreads her fingers wide, pressing harder, as if she could press the image deeper into her memory. The towel sits rough against her damp skin, and she can feel the water still beading on her shoulders, the steam beginning to thin as the room cools. She doesn't move.
She leans closer to the mirror. Her breath fogs the streak she just cleared, and she watches it happen—watches herself disappear again, layer by layer, until only the outline of her face remains, ghostly and indistinct. She could clear it again. She could see herself clearly. But she doesn't. She stays there, half-obscured, and lets the fog decide what she's allowed to see.
Her hand drops from the glass. The sound of it—a wet slap—echoes in the small, tiled room. She stands in the cooling air, water still dripping from the ends of her hair, and she realizes she's been holding her breath. She lets it out, slow and deliberate, and the sound is too loud in the silence.
She reaches for her toothbrush. The motion is automatic, mechanical. She squeezes paste onto the bristles and brings it to her mouth, and the mint is sharp and clean against the taste of steam and salt. She brushes in the dim light, watching her own blurred reflection move in the fogged mirror, and she thinks about tomorrow morning. About the coffee. About the way she'll stand in his doorway and wait for him to look up and say her name.
She spits. Rinses. Wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. The towel has slipped loose at her chest, and she pulls it tighter, tucking the edge between her breasts. The fabric is damp now, clinging to her skin, and she shivers despite the warmth still hanging in the air.
She reaches for the light switch. Her fingers hover over it for a moment—then she pulls back. She leaves the bathroom dark as she steps out, the light still burning behind her, the fog still thick on the mirror. She doesn't look back.
Her bedroom is small and dark, the blinds drawn against the streetlight. She doesn't turn on the lamp. She knows the room by heart—the narrow bed against the wall, the stack of books on the nightstand, the single chair by the window where she drinks her morning coffee. She stands in the doorway, still wrapped in the towel, and lets the dark settle around her.
She crosses to the bed. Sits on the edge. The mattress dips beneath her weight, and she reaches for her phone on the nightstand, checking the time. 11:23 PM. Seven hours until she needs to be at Thorne Industries. Seven hours until she walks through his door. Seven hours until she hears him say her name again, low and rough and full of something he didn't plan on feeling.
She sets the phone down. Lies back on the bed. The ceiling is dark and featureless, and she stares at it, feeling the weight of the day settle into her bones. Her body is tired. Her mind won't stop. And somewhere between the dark and the silence, she lets herself imagine it: his hand on the doorframe, his thumb pressing harder into the wood, his voice dropping when he said her name—like he was discovering it for the first time.
She closes her eyes. The word is still there, lodged beneath her ribs, warm and insistent. Eva. She lets it sit. Lets it settle. And she doesn't try to push it away. Not tonight. Tonight, she lets herself ache.