The conference room smelled faintly of stale coffee and dry-erase markers. Elena perched on one end of the long table, papers spread like a shield in front of her. Adrian sat at the other end, laptop open, fingers moving with crisp precision.
The distance between them was deliberate.
Mira strolled in with pastries. "Fuel," she announced, plopping the box in the center. "You'll need it if you're going to stop glaring and start planning."
"We're not glaring," Elena muttered.
"You're glaring," Mira corrected cheerfully, dropping into a chair. "Adrian, tell her she's glaring."
Adrian didn't look up from his screen. "She's glaring."
Elena rolled her eyes.
---
Different Languages
Adrian turned the laptop toward them, displaying a sleek proposal draft. "I've outlined potential donors, sponsorship tiers, tax benefits. If we lead with structure, the businesses will take us seriously."
Elena skimmed the lines, her heart sinking at the sterile tone. "It sounds like a quarterly report, not a lifeline. These kids aren't numbers, Adrian. They're stories. People need to feel something."
"They'll feel the tax deduction," he said dryly.
Her glare deepened. "This isn't about deductions. It's about showing them why this center matters." She pulled out a stack of drawings from the art room — messy rainbows, stick figures, a paper sun with uneven rays. "This is what convinces people."
Adrian studied the drawings, his face unreadable. For a flicker of a moment, something softened in his eyes. But then he closed the folder and slid it back toward her. "Not enough."
Frustration clawed at her chest. "You always did think heart was weakness."
"And you always thought hope could fix everything."
The words hung heavy, echoing old wounds neither dared to touch.
Mira cleared her throat. "Okay, okay, before this turns into round two of 'Who's More Stubborn,' how about a compromise? Adrian handles the structure, Elena handles the soul. Together, it's unbreakable."
Neither of them answered, but silence was as close to agreement as they'd get.
---
Long Hours
Over the next week, the three of them became fixtures in the center's office. Days blurred into evenings as spreadsheets mingled with sketches, email drafts with posters.
Elena found herself sitting closer to Adrian, if only because they needed to pass papers back and forth. His handwriting was still the same — sharp, deliberate strokes. His coffee order hadn't changed either: black, two sugars, though now he took it in silence.
Once, she caught him reading over her shoulder as she drafted a flyer, his breath warm against her hair. Her pulse skittered.
"Your headline is weak," he murmured.
She bristled. "It's hopeful."
"It's vague."
"Not everything has to be an argument, Adrian."
"Then stop making them so easy."
But when she shoved the flyer toward him, he surprised her by tweaking only a single word before sliding it back. "Better," he said.
And it was.
---
Almost Softness
One evening, long after Mira had gone home, Elena and Adrian were still at the table. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and exhaustion softened their edges.
Adrian leaned back, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You always were relentless."
Elena froze at the quiet admission. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"It isn't." His voice dropped, almost gentle. "It kept me sane sometimes."
Her chest tightened. For a moment, she let herself look at him — really look. The lines of his face were sharper, but his eyes were the same. The boy who had once held her heart sat right there, hidden under armor he hadn't needed back then.
The silence between them shifted, no longer sharp but fragile, like glass about to crack.
"Elena—" he began, voice rough.
She shot up too quickly, gathering papers with trembling hands. "We should… call it a night."
His jaw tightened, but he didn't stop her.
As she left the room, her heart hammered against her ribs, torn between fear and a longing she couldn't let herself touch.
Behind her, Adrian sat alone, staring at the stack of drawings she'd left behind. His hand hovered over one — a child's crooked heart, colored in red crayon — before he pulled it back, fists clenching.