The sharp echo of my heels on the marble hallway was the only sound breaking the stale silence of the condo floor.
It was early, too early for anyone to be awake, yet there it was: the low hum of movers still unpacking boxes next door.
Him. The new neighbor.
I ignored it.
I had bigger things on my mind than whoever decided to move in at the ungodly hour.
My phone buzzed in my hand, another notification from the newsroom, a reminder of the chaos brewing outside.
The city was drowning in scandal, and i needed facts, not rumors, not speculations. Facts.
The elevator dinged open.
And of course, as if the universe enjoyed mocking me, he was inside.
Tall, clean-cut, carrying himself with the kind of quiet confidence that irritated me instantly.
"Good morning," he said, voice smooth, too casual for a stranger. Then, as if that wasn't presumptuous enough, he added: "Miguel. Miguel Ang."
I didn't ask.
My eyes flicked to him briefly, just long enough to register his attempt at charm, before landing back on the illuminated floor numbers.
"Didn't ask," I muttered under my breath.
But he only smiled.
Like he was entertained.
The elevator descended slowly, each floor dragging seconds longer than necessary.
I could feel his gaze linger on me, not in the lecherous way men often look, but in a curious, calculating way.
As though i were some puzzle he wanted to solve.
I hated puzzles.
When the elevator opened to the lobby, I strode out first, purposeful, unbothered.
My car was waiting, black, sleek, armor against the world.
The city air was thick with diesel and unrest, banners waving from the distance, protesters demanding answers.
My answers.
The police station was already buzzing when i arrived.
Cameras outside, reporters shoved against barricades, everyone clamoring for soundbites.
But they knew better than to approach me, I wasn't competition, I was the standard. They stepped aside as i passed, my press badge flashing like a weapon.
Inside, the station smelled of stale coffee and old paper.
Phones ringing, officers shouting, chaos simmering.
I walked straight to the front desk.
"I need the incident reports from last night," I said, voice clipped, commanding.
The desk sergeant blinked, fumbling through folders. And then, from the corner of my eye, I saw him again. Miguel. Standing with two officers, shaking hands like he belonged.
He was wearing a crisp suit now, briefcase in hand, every inch the polished lawyer.
Of course. A lawyer.
Our eyes met for a second.
He didn't look away.
The Chief called me in, his office cramped, files stacked like unstable towers. "Miss Coleen," he sighed, like my name carried both respect and dread. "Always first on the scene."
"Always first to get the truth," I corrected, sliding into the chair opposite him.
But before he could speak, there was a knock on the door. Miguel. Again.
"Chief, you wanted me here for the consultation," he said.
His voice was calm, steady, as though he hadn't just invaded my morning twice already.
The Chief rubbed his temples. "Perfect. Both of you, sit."
I stiffened. "I don't do partnerships."
"This isn't a partnership," the Chief replied. "This is containment. Both of you know too much already, and i can't have stories spiraling out of control while the case is still open."
Miguel took the seat beside me, uninvited. His cologne was subtle, distracting, irritatingly precise.
I kept my eyes on the Chief, but my awareness betrayed me.
I noticed the way Miguel tapped his pen lightly against the table, the way his gaze occasionally flicked toward me, as if studying the cadence of my reactions.
The briefing stretched on, names, places, missing funds, a timeline that reeked of corruption.
I absorbed everything, my recorder hidden in my pocket, my notes meticulous. Facts. Always facts.
Miguel didn't interrupt, but i could feel him watching me write, like he wanted to see what truths i chose to keep and which ones i'd eventually burn.
When the Chief dismissed us, I was the first out the door.
I didn't need Miguel shadowing me through the corridors, but he did anyway, steps perfectly aligned with mine.
"Do you always barge into people's mornings like this?" I snapped, pushing through the station doors.
He smiled faintly, infuriatingly calm. "Do you always act like the world is against you?"
"I don't act," I shot back. "The world is against me."
Outside, the sun was sharp, unforgiving. I slipped into my car, shutting the door between us.
He didn't fight it.
He only watched as i drove off, expression unreadable.
-
Back at my condo, I should've been writing. The newsroom wanted updates.
The producers wanted angles.
But the words wouldn't come.
The case files spread across my desk blurred, my recorder's voice notes tangled with my own thoughts.
And beneath it all, the image of Miguel lingered. His steady gaze.
His unwanted questions.
His maddening calm.
I poured another glass of wine, opened my laptop, tried again. Nothing.
So i ran.
The city streets were alive with neon and noise.
My sneakers pounded the pavement, breath sharp in my chest.
I ran to clear my head, to chase silence, to outrun ghosts that wouldn't die.
And then, him. Again.
Coming from the opposite direction, sweat-soaked, running like he belonged here too.
We slowed when paths converged, his eyes catching mine beneath the streetlights.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
The air between us thickened, charged.
"Don't tell me," I muttered. "You run here every night."
He smirked, catching his breath. "Guess you'll just have to keep running to find out."
I hated the way his words hooked into me, the way curiosity prickled despite myself.
-
Later, alone in my condo, heart still racing, I stared at my reflection in the window.
The city sprawled behind me, endless, unkind.
I whispered into the silence, almost daring it to answer:
"If i'm not looking for someone, why does it feel like someone's already found me?"