Monday came like it always did — too soon and too loud. But for once, I didn't mind the alarm.
I was up before it buzzed, sitting on the edge of my bed with my heart somewhere between my throat and the floor. The weekend had folded into memory, but the echo of Harper's touch still hummed beneath my skin. I didn't know what we were now. Friends? Pretending? More?
But I couldn't stop thinking about her. Or that night. Or how her hands had felt — confident but trembling. How she looked at me like I was something forbidden and familiar all at once. I was spinning inside, but I wore calm like perfume.
By the time I stepped into the office, Harper was already there.
She smiled when she saw me — the same soft, easy grin she gave everyone. "Hey, stranger."
"Hey yourself," I said, keeping my voice light. I wanted to melt. I wanted to read her mind. I wanted to pretend it didn't happen.
So I did a bit of all three.
We slid right back into our usual banter. She complimented my new earrings. I teased her about the pen she always chewed. We talked about the team's upcoming strategy meeting like nothing had shifted between us.
And maybe it hadn't.
Except it had. I felt it in the silence between sentences. In how I kept catching her looking at me, then looking away just a second too fast.
That was the beginning of the week.
By midweek, things were still… fine. Smooth. Suspiciously so.
Everyone was busy. Dani popped into my office at one point to rant about a presentation mishap, and I listened, nodded, laughed where appropriate. Even Tasha stopped by, dropping off a flash drive and teasing me about "finally dressing like a manager."
But I kept watching Harper.
Every moment she laughed with someone else, or looked like herself, I wondered — did it shake her like it shook me? Did she remember how her lips had searched mine like she'd been holding it in for years?
Or was it just… nothing to her?
I knew I had to ask. I had to know.
But the moment never came easy. It was always: "Too many people around," or "She's busy now," or "Not the right time."
Until Friday.
We were both leaving the office late. The others had filtered out after a small birthday celebration for someone in admin. There were leftover cupcakes on my desk and confetti stuck to my blazer sleeve.
Harper lingered behind with me, nursing the last of her soda while I packed my bag.
It felt quiet. Safe. Like the universe was giving me a window.
So I swallowed every nervous flutter in my throat and said, "Can we talk?"
She looked up from her cup, something flickering in her eyes. "Yeah. Of course."
I paused, fingers tightening around the strap of my bag. "About last weekend."
Her breath hitched just slightly, but she nodded.
"I'm sorry," she said immediately, her voice low. "I wasn't thinking. I shouldn't have—"
"I liked it," I said, before I could stop myself.
She blinked. "What?"
"I liked it. And I don't regret it." My voice came steadier than I felt.
Harper exhaled slowly, like she'd been holding something in too. "I mean… I don't completely regret it either. But I'm dating Loe."
I nodded, keeping my smile stitched on like a badge of honor. "I know."
"I didn't mean to confuse things."
"You didn't." Lie. I was already tangled in a knot of confusion I couldn't undo.
She looked at me like she didn't believe it. And maybe I didn't either.
"So," I asked, carefully, "why did you do it?"
She hesitated. Then her lips tugged into something that wasn't quite a smile. "I think… I noticed you. At some point. More than I should have."
I blinked. Her words hit me like a ripple that slowly grew into a wave.
"You saw me?" I said softly.
She nodded.
And that — that acknowledgment — warmed something in me, even as it threatened to break me.
"I hope it won't change our friendship," I said. "I really don't want to lose you."
"You won't," Harper said, instantly. "Promise."
I smiled, but it ached. Like I was trying to wear happiness over an old bruise.
We said goodbye like everything was normal. Like two friends parting after a late night at work. But the truth was tangled beneath every word.
The following Monday, the office was buzzing with a surprise announcement — Rae had officially been transferred back to their branch.
She arrived with her usual energy, arms wide, voice loud. "Your favorite is back! Miss me?"
Tasha laughed. Dani gasped. Everyone was excited. Rae floated back into the group like she'd never left.
Harper beamed at her best friend's return. And I? I acted just like everyone else. Smiled. Hugged Rae. Said all the right things.
No one noticed the storm underneath my skin.
Rae brought energy and distraction. Group lunches became a thing again. Weekend plans started being made. I found myself pulled into the center of a growing circle — Rae, Harper, Loe (when he was around), Dani, Tasha.
It should've made me happy. It did, in part.
But every time Harper looked at me in a meeting, or passed me a shared file with that unreadable glint in her eye, I felt like screaming: Do you think about it, too?
Of course, I never said a word.
We didn't talk about that night again. Not in words.
But sometimes, when she touched my shoulder or laughed a little too long at my joke, I wondered.
And at night, when I lay in bed with my hand over the place she once held me, I remembered the feel of her breath on my skin and wondered what she was thinking.
Had I imagined it all?
Would it happen again?
Should I want it to?
But daylight came like a wall. And I went back to playing the role I was best at.
Friend.
Colleague.
Unbothered.
Even when my heart whispered otherwise.