It was a Thursday morning. The kind that felt like a gentle reset. After the chaos of Nina's birthday party and the storm of emotions that followed, things had slowly begun to fall back into place. We had a quiet weekend, full of soft moments—cooking dinner together, reading on opposite ends of the couch, falling asleep tangled in each other's arms. Nina had been sweeter lately, more affectionate, like she was trying to patch invisible cracks I hadn't yet noticed.
The week at work, however, had been brutal. Deadlines stacked like dominoes. Late nights, tired eyes, and the kind of silence that hummed with unspoken exhaustion. Still, we survived it. Together.
That morning, I woke before her. I watched her for a while—how her lashes curled slightly at the ends, how her cheek pressed softly into the pillow. She looked peaceful, the kind of peace I only ever saw when she was asleep. And when she finally stirred and smiled at me, murmuring "Good morning, baby," I swear the fatigue of the week melted.
We made breakfast together—scrambled eggs, toast, and slices of mango. She fed me a bite of hers, laughed when I burned my tongue on the toast. She insisted on fixing my tie, her hands looping it with such gentle precision. I helped her buckle her heels, stealing kisses up her leg until she laughed and pushed me away playfully.
On the drive to work, our fingers stayed intertwined on the center console. We didn't need to say much. The quiet was comforting.
At the firm, we walked in hand in hand—just like always. The couple everyone watched. Nina in her cream blazer and matching slacks, her long dark hair in a low ponytail, her lips painted a soft pink. She looked every bit the goddess she was, and I didn't hide how proud I felt walking beside her.
The elevator was already half full, but space seemed to open up when we entered. I pressed 24 for myself and 25 for her. As the numbers glowed red, I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.
"Don't miss me too much," I teased.
She rolled her eyes but smiled. "You're the clingy one, Ethan."
"I don't even deny it," I said, grinning.
When the elevator stopped at my floor, I stepped out and turned around just in time to see her mouthing I love you before the doors closed.
The day passed slowly. Meetings, client calls, paperwork. I missed her more than I should've. Maybe it was just the way she'd looked this morning—glowing, grounded, hers and mine. When five finally rolled around, I shut my laptop, grabbed my coat, and headed up to the 25th floor.
The moment I stepped into her department, I spotted her. She was leaning against her desk, her hands in her hair, her head tilted back in frustration as she talked to one of her colleagues. When she saw me, her entire posture changed.
Her face lit up. She crossed the room in seconds and wrapped her arms around me like a child seeking comfort. "I'm so tired," she whispered into my chest.
I held her tighter, kissing her temple. "Let's go home."
"God, yes."
I helped her pack up. She moved slower than usual, rubbing her temples. I carried her bag. In the elevator, we leaned against the wall, her head resting on my shoulder.
That was when the elevator stopped at the 20th floor.
The doors slid open, and a man stepped in.
He was tall—maybe six-three. Broad shoulders under a well-fitted navy suit. Clean-shaven, confident. That kind of quiet, magazine-ad attractiveness that made people look twice. I noticed the slight swagger in his walk, the tailored watch on his wrist, the sharp jawline. My stomach tightened with something like envy—or maybe just insecurity.
He turned to face us, casually—and then his eyes widened.
"Oh my God. Nina?"
I felt Nina's body tense beside me.
The man stepped forward and pulled her into a hug.
She didn't return it.
She stood stiff in his arms, her face frozen in shock.
"It's been—what—five years?" the man laughed, stepping back. "You look incredible. I mean, seriously, wow. Still you, huh?"
Nina nodded slowly. "Kohl… wow. I didn't know you worked here."
"Just started last week. I'm at corporate. I hate myself for not knowing you were here too." His smile was blinding.
She gave a strange, uncomfortable laugh. "Yeah. Been here a while."
Kohl didn't seem to notice her hesitation. He kept going. "I heard you were doing well. You didn't come to any of the reunions. We all missed you."
"I've been… busy," she said.
He chuckled. "Still the queen of excuses. Some things don't change."
He was about to say something else when he paused, then added, "How's Nora? God, I miss her too. We haven't spoken in forever."
That name.
That name hit like a gunshot.
Nina's grip on my hand turned to stone.
I looked down at her.
Her face had gone pale. Completely blank. But her eyes… they flared with panic.
The same panic I'd seen the night of her birthday. The same panic when I mentioned the name Nora.
Only this time—it was worse.
Worse, because it wasn't just panic. It was fury. Grief. Embarrassment. Like something sacred had just been exposed.
"I… we don't talk," she said quickly. Her voice was clipped. "She's fine."
Kohl laughed again, casually oblivious. "Shame. She was always sweet. Say hi if you ever do."
Nina didn't respond.
I could feel the fury vibrating off her.
The elevator finally reached the ground floor with a quiet ding.
The doors opened.
"Anyway," Kohl said, stepping out, "It was great seeing you. We should catch up sometime."
He gave her a wave. Then, with a smile far too long and knowing, he added, "You still have that look in your eyes, you know."
I didn't understand what that meant. But Nina did. Her face contorted—not in sadness or nostalgia. In disgust.
When he disappeared into the crowd, Nina let out a breath so shaky it sounded like a sob.
I didn't speak.
Not yet.
She stayed frozen, her hand still in mine, her eyes staring straight ahead.
I squeezed her fingers gently. "Who was that?"
She pulled away instantly.
"He… he's my ex. Kohl."
And just like that, she turned and walked.
Fast.
Her heels clicked furiously across the marble floor. I chased after her, catching up just as we reached the car.
"Nina," I said, gently.
She yanked the passenger door open and got in without a word.
The drive home was silent.
But in my head, noise. Endless questions. Images. Her frozen face. That name again—Nora. His smile. Her reaction. Her disgust.
Who was this man? What had he done to her?
And why, every time Nora was mentioned, did Nina act like she couldn't breathe?
Back home, I parked the car and turned to her. She hadn't moved. She sat still, staring at the dashboard.
I reached for her hand again.
She didn't pull away this time.
"He didn't matter," she whispered.
I waited.
"But he… he reminds me of a time I never want to revisit. That's all. Please don't ask me more tonight."
I looked at her—at the rawness behind her eyes. I wanted to say so many things. That she could talk to me. That I would listen. That I wasn't afraid of her past.
But I also knew—when she looked like this—words weren't what she needed.
She needed presence.
So I nodded.
And leaned over, kissing her temple.
She sighed into me.
And we sat there, hands clasped in the stillness, the questions unanswered—but the love intact.