Emma tried, but Lucas's critical face and "redone" command haunted her. Even imagined him working late, mentally critiquing her slowness! That damned "ability" sabotaged relaxation!
"Ugh!" She killed the audio, eyeing leftover wine. Maybe alcohol could mute these voices? Tried science, tried mysticism - mayberaw intoxication worked? She chugged half a glass. Burning liquid numbered her throat briefly.
Phone buzzed. Work email from Lucas: Subject line "Awating proposal direction - Lucas Whitley". Sent threen minutes ago.
A cocktail of stress, wine, and stubbornness surged. She grabbed keys and phone, rushing out in pajamas. Cold night air sobered her slightly, but resolve burned - she'd test this now, the most direct way!
The Verve building's 38th floor loomed empty under secutiry lights. Emma swiped in silently, racing toward Luca's office. Light seeped under his foor - he was still there!
Heart hammering like a drum solo, she halted four meters from his door, closed her eyes, and focused - radar hunting signals.
Silence initially. Only heartbeat and AC hum. Almost giving up, she nearly believed madness ... until -
Brick textures contrasted with chiffon flow ... lighting must cut sharper, like Hopper's paintings ....
Her analysis had potential ... but execution ...
... She should've seen my email by now ... need progress tomorrow ...
Thoughts! Clear continuous! Concept ideas mixed with critiques and impatience with her pace! Clamping her hand over her mouth, Emma stifled a gasp. It worked! Under alcohol and mignight stress, she'd actively captured his mental stream!
Emma even sensed its "temperature" - cool focus on work, shifting to complex emotion when mentioning her. Too strange, too real. She edged closer instinctively.
Then - without warning - the door clicked open from inside!
Lucas stood there holding an empty mug, mid-stride to the kitchen. Face-to-face, time froze.
Emma's cheeks burned, wine suddenly evaporating into icy panic. Mind blank.
Luca's glacial eyes flickered surprise - then deep calm. Scanning her inappropriate attire, empty hands, finally settling on her panic - stricken face.
No words. But in that moment, Emma's mind clearly received his thought:
... Brooks? What's she doing here? This time ... this distance ... ?
Her heart stopped. Could he sense proximity? Or ... mere coincidence?
Lucas stepped aside, voice flat:"Need help, Miss Brooks?"
Emma opened her mouth, nothing came. Connection still active, yet his thoughts now static, drowned in that single question's echo and his unreadable gaze.
A security flashlight swept down the corridor, spotlighting the pajama - clad woman caught eavesdropping outside the Creative Director's door.
The security flashlight' beam pinned Emma like a stage spolight. In her flannel checkered sleep pants and faded T-shirt, hair disheveled, cheeks flushed with alcohol and panic, she looked like a dreamwalker lost in an alien dimension.
Lucas stood in his doorway, glacial gray eyes, sweeping from her inappropriate attire to her empty hands, finally settling on her face - etched with raw teer.