By the time I clocked out, the office had already started to quiet down. The hum of printers, the shuffle of papers, the occasional echo of heels against the tiled floor — all of it dimmed to a soft after-hour murmur. I glanced at the corner of my laptop screen. 6:51 p.m.

Almost seven.

I shut it down, leaned back in my chair, and stretched until my back popped. A full day. Productive enough to feel earned, not enough to feel too exhausting.

Derrick had left half an hour earlier — 6:30 on the dot, like he always did. He'd called it "a date with destiny." Then he'd paused, smirked, and added, "Destiny, in this case, happens to be a barista named Leona who thinks I'm funny. Pray for her."

Classic Derrick.

I smiled faintly at the thought as I grabbed my jacket and picked up my briefcase.The parking lot was quieter than usual when I stepped out, the late-evening air crisp, the city lights flickering to life beyond the building gates. My shoes echoed softly against the pavement as I made my way toward my car.

Then I heard it.

] "Kai?"

The voice came from behind, familiar enough to stop me mid-step.

I turned, hand halfway to my car door, and saw her.

Tasha.

Her auburn hair caught the glow of the overhead lights, turning it into something like bronze fire. She was in a fitted beige coat, black slacks, and her usual confident poise — the kind that made people pay attention without realizing they were doing it.

"It's been a while," I said, offering a small smile.

"Yeah," she said, her lips curving softly as she approached. "Gray & Milton's big enough to make people vanish. You could work five doors down and not bump into them for months."

She wasn't wrong. The company wasn't small by any means, hundreds of employees across three buildings. After almost four years here, there were still people whose names I only knew from company-wide emails.

"Guess we both got swallowed up by the system," I said lightly.

She laughed, a quiet melodic sound that hadn't changed one bit. "Yeah. That's one way to put it."

For a brief second, she just looked at me. Not in the awkward, I'm-still-into-you kind of way. It was subtler, like a glance that lingered a heartbeat too long before moving on.

"So," she said finally, crossing her arms. "Senior Financial Analyst, huh? I never got to ask — how's that treating you?"

I leaned against the side of my car, smiling. "A lot of spreadsheets. More meetings than sanity allows. But not bad. Pays the bills. Keeps me awake. Sometimes both at once."

She chuckled. "Still witty, I see."

"Still sharp," I countered. "How's project management? Heard they've been loading you guys with double the usual workload."

Her brow arched. "They have. But you know me, I thrive under chaos."

"That you do," I said, and meant it.

A small pause followed. Not uncomfortable, just… filled with old air. The kind that reminded you of people you once saw every day.

"I heard you got engaged," I said. "A Lewis something?"

She smiled, eyes glinting. "Harrison. Lewis Harrison."

"Right," I said with a small snap of my fingers. "That's the one."

Her smile softened. "You heard from Derrick, didn't you?"

"Maybe."

Her gaze lingered on me again, just for a moment. Not longing, not envy, just a flicker of something wistful. Then she looked down and brushed an invisible crease off her sleeve.

"Well," she said quietly. "He's a good guy."

"I'm sure he is," I replied, and I meant that too.

She looked up again. "And your wife? How's she doing?"

There it was — your wife. She said it gently, not bitterly. Like a person testing the temperature of water she already knew was too warm.

"She's good," I said. "Busy. But good."

Tasha smiled faintly. "You two always were… something else."

"Something else?" I repeated, amused.

She gave a little shrug. "You know what I mean. That kind of connection people pretend doesn't exist."

I looked down, smiling to myself. "Yeah. I know."

For a few seconds, neither of us spoke. Just the sound of a car door slamming somewhere in the distance, and the low hum of the streetlights above.

She broke the silence first. "Well, I should go. Harrison's waiting."

"Of course," I said, straightening up.

She hesitated. "Kai?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad," she said softly. "That you're happy."

Her tone wasn't sad, just final, like someone closing a chapter in a book they'd reread too many times.

"Thanks, Tasha."

She smiled one last time before turning away. I watched as she crossed the lot to her car, the sound of her heels fading against the concrete. She paused before getting in, exhaled, and for a moment, I saw her lips move. I couldn't hear what she said, but I caught the shape of it.

I really am happy for you.

Then she got into her car, started the engine, and drove off.

I stood there for a few seconds longer, staring at the spot where her taillights disappeared around the corner.

Some people leave without ever really leaving.

I got into my car, started the engine, and rolled out of the lot. The city stretched ahead — the roads humming beneath the wheels, the skyline glowing faintly against the deepening dusk.

The buildings blurred by as I thought about how strange it was, the way life branches out. How paths that once ran parallel eventually twist in opposite directions, not out of malice, but out of time.

---

The drive home was a little longer than usual. Maybe it was the traffic. Maybe it was the quiet. Or maybe it was because I'd stopped by that little corner store a few blocks from the office.

I got Val a box of truffles, the kind she pretends not to like because they're "too sweet," but always finishes anyway. Picked up a tin of butter cookies for Aline too. And Duchess? A new toy mouse. The cat would probably pretend not to care, then spend the rest of the night chasing it across the living room.

By the time I pulled into the driveway, Val's car was already there. A faint smile tugged at my lips. She was home.

I killed the engine, grabbed my briefcase with one hand and the small paper bag with the other, then made my way to the front door.

Aline was the first to greet me — Duchess trailing after her, tail flicking with that same regal indifference she always had.

"Good evening, Mr. Tanaka," Aline said brightly. "Rough day?"

I shook my head. "Not really. Just long."

Duchess yawned, unimpressed.

I looked down at her. "You too, huh?"

Aline chuckled. "She's been judging me since morning. I think she misses you."

"Yeah, right," I said, smiling as I set my briefcase down by the wall.

Before I could ask, Aline beat me to it, her lips curving knowingly. "She's in the kitchen."

Of course she was.

I handed her the small box and the tin from the bag. "These are for you and Her Majesty over there."

Aline's face lit up. "Oh, you didn't have to—thank you!" She crouched down, showing Duchess the cookie tin. "Look, sweetheart. He brought us treats."

Duchess blinked slowly, then turned her head away.

I sighed. "Yeah. Ungrateful as ever."

Aline laughed softly, still delighted, and I left her there, heading toward the kitchen.

Val was at the stove when I stepped in, hair tied loosely, humming something under her breath. The smell hit first — something rich and warm.

For a second, I just watched her move. Calm, graceful... Home.

Then I crossed the room and slipped my arms around her from behind.

She jumped a little, almost dropping the wooden spoon in her hand. "God—Kai!"

I chuckled against her shoulder. "Missed you too."

She relaxed into me then, that tiny exhale giving her away. "Welcome home, husband."

The word still hit harder than I'd ever admit.

"Smells amazing," I murmured, brushing my chin lightly against her neck before setting the paper bag on the counter.

Her gaze followed the bag, and I caught the way her eyes brightened instantly. "You got me something?"

I nodded.

She turned fully, curiosity already winning over composure, and peeked inside. When she saw what it was, her face broke into the kind of smile that could end wars.

"Truffles?" she said softly, like it was a secret.

"The good ones," I said.

She wrapped her arms around my neck, kissing me quickly — soft, sweet, grateful. Then she went back to opening the box with the same energy she'd have opening a birthday present.

It's funny. Watching her like that — hair slightly messy, sleeves rolled up, stealing chocolate from the box before dinner — you'd never guess she was one of the most intimidatingly brilliant people I knew.

Dangerous, beautiful, impossible — all at once.

And yet here she was, barefoot in our kitchen, smiling like a child over a box of truffles.

I leaned against the counter, just watching her.

Tasha had been part of one chapter.

But Val was the story.

And as she turned, laughing about how she'd "only eat one" — already reaching for her second — I realized something quietly grounding.

I wouldn't trade this story for anything.

---

To be continued...

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