Monday

The soft hum of the fluorescent lights overhead had always annoyed her. But today, it felt almost comforting. Neutral. Dull in a way she needed.

Emily sat in her office, one ankle crossed over the other, the morning sun stretching through half-closed blinds and striping the desk in uneven shadows. A mug of lukewarm coffee sat untouched beside her keyboard.

It was Monday.

Chloe had been fussy that morning, clinging to her shoulder while Emily packed her bag, refusing to let go until the last second. Jason had passed her a protein bar at the door, kissed her cheek absently, and said, “You good?” like nothing had happened.

Because to him—nothing had.

She’d known it Saturday night, seen it in the way he crashed into bed and didn’t even stir when she slipped in beside him. And come Sunday morning, bleary-eyed and chipper, he hadn’t mentioned poker. Hadn’t mentioned the bet. Hadn’t mentioned the fucking coupon.

Not a word.

He didn’t remember.

She wasn’t sure whether that made it better or worse.

Her hands hovered over the keyboard. The proposal draft she’d meant to finish an hour ago blinked, untouched. Her inbox pinged quietly. She ignored it.

Instead, she thought about the message.

Will’s message.

After she sent the photos Saturday night—two of them, nothing crude, nothing she hadn’t chosen deliberately—she’d stayed awake longer than she meant to. Not waiting for a reply, exactly.

Just… listening for the ding.

It came twenty minutes later.

Thank you.

That was all.

No emojis. No compliments. No begging for more. No follow-up. Just two words. Polite. Almost clinical.

It had left her feeling… strange.

Like she’d taken her shirt off on stage and the applause never came.

But then, maybe that was the best case scenario.

She’d made the move. She’d sent the photos. She’d claimed the risk. And he hadn’t ruined it. He hadn’t cheapened it. He hadn’t made her regret it.

Still…

Emily reached for her coffee, sipped, then grimaced.

Cold.

She set it back down.

Did he like them?

The thought came unbidden, sliding in under the mental door she’d tried to close.

Did he look at them more than once?

Did he save them?

Did he stare at her the way he had at the picnic—eyes wide, breath shallow, like she was something he couldn’t believe had stepped into focus?

She bit the inside of her cheek and opened a new document. Titled it “Q3 Budget” even though she didn’t plan to write a single thing.

It wasn’t about Will. Not really.

It was about knowing.

About being seen.

And maybe—just maybe—it was about the fact that someone had looked at her, truly looked, and wanted her enough to stop time for ten seconds in the rain.

And that part?

That part wouldn’t go away.