I noticed the mistake because it didn't sit right.
The numbers added up if you glanced at them. Everything balanced. Clean. Efficient.
Too efficient.
I'd been reviewing supply logs for most of the morning, cross-checking intake records with distribution schedules. Two shipments caught my attention, same materials, same quantities, same supplier. Logged a week apart.
On paper, both had already been distributed.
In the storage records, there were gaps.
Not obvious ones. The kind you only saw if you followed the chain all the way through instead of trusting the summary.
I leaned back in my chair and stared at the screen.
"That's not right," I muttered.
I went through the data again. Slower this time. Then pulled it from a different access point and compared it with earlier cycles.
Same result.
Someone was accounting for resources that didn't physically exist anymore.
That wasn't a typo. And it wasn't accidental.
This wasn't my problem.
It also absolutely was.
If I ignored it, I'd be pretending not to see something real. If I brought it to the wrong person, I could end up crossing a line I didn't understand yet.
There was only one place to take it.
Kael.
The thought alone made my shoulders tense.
Annoying.
I closed the files, stood, and headed for his office before I could talk myself out of it.
I knocked once and stepped inside without waiting.
He looked up immediately.
There was something about the way he occupied space that made you notice him before he moved, broad shoulders, straight posture, a stillness that wasn't relaxed so much as controlled. He didn't look surprised to see me.
"This better be urgent," he said.
"It is," I replied.
I walked closer and set the tablet on his desk, turning it so he could see.
"These supply entries," I said. "They're duplicated. The system shows them as distributed, but the storage records don't support that."
His gaze dropped to the screen. Then lifted to my face.
"Who gave you access to this?" he asked.
"You did," I said. "Even if you didn't mean to."
His jaw tightened.
"That wasn't permission to audit internal systems."
"Then you shouldn't have given me internal data," I replied evenly. "Because this isn't a formatting issue."
He stood.
The movement was abrupt enough that my breath caught before I could stop it. He came around the desk, stopping closer than necessary. Close enough that I became acutely aware of the difference between us – height, mass, heat.
"Careful," he said.
"I am," I answered. "That's why I'm here."
I didn't step back. Partly out of stubbornness. Partly because my body refused to cooperate.
Up close, the effect of him was worse. The lines of his face were sharper, more defined. There was nothing polished about him, no city neatness, no softness. Just strength, worn-in and unselfconscious, like a man who had never needed to prove it.
I hated that I noticed.
He leaned over the tablet, his arm close enough that my skin reacted before my brain could catch up. Heat spread low and sudden, completely inappropriate.
"This again," he said quietly. "Explain."
"The resources are logged twice," I said, forcing my voice steady. "Someone is moving them without triggering alerts. Either they're being diverted, or they're being allocated to something that isn't documented."
He didn't answer right away.
Then, "You're sure."
"Yes."
"How long?"
"At least three cycles," I said. "Possibly longer."
Something shifted in his expression. Not dramatic. Just enough to tell me I'd hit something real.
He straightened and stepped back, breaking the closeness like it hadn't affected him at all.
"Fix the records," he said. "Flag the discrepancy."
"And the cause?" I asked.
"You don't investigate that."
I crossed my arms. "Then don't give me systems that require oversight."
His eyes snapped back to mine.
"You're here temporarily," he said. "You don't need full context."
"Then don't give me responsibility without authority," I shot back. "Because that's how things get missed."
The air between us felt tight.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
"Correct the data," he said finally. "Leave the access open."
I blinked. "You're not cutting it?"
"No."
"Then you're asking me to keep seeing things I'm not supposed to question."
"I'm asking you to do your job," he said. "Nothing more."
I exhaled slowly.
"Fine," I said. "But if this becomes a problem, you can't say you weren't warned."
His gaze lingered on me longer than necessary.
"Back to work," he said.
I turned and left before my body could betray me any further.
The hallway felt colder.
I walked faster than needed, trying to shake the awareness clinging to me, the way my pulse hadn't settled, the way my skin still felt too sensitive.
That had been unprofessional.
So had the way he'd looked at me.
Later that night, lying in bed, I stared at the ceiling and thought about it anyway.
About how close he'd been. How solid. How different.
Men in the city were polished. Careful. They talked. They explained themselves. They tried to be impressive in ways that felt rehearsed. My last relationship had been built on endless conversations, feelings dissected, boundaries negotiated, promises made and slowly worn down by routine.
Nothing about that had felt instinctive.
Kael hadn't tried to charm me. Hadn't softened his tone. Hadn't offered reassurance or interest or anything that could be mistaken for flirting.
And yet my body had reacted anyway.
That unsettled me more than if he had.
I wasn't naïve. I knew the difference between attraction and proximity. Between tension and meaning.
Still, lying there in the dark, I couldn't shake the sense that whatever this was, it wasn't something I could talk my way out of. There were no words for it yet. No explanations.
Somewhere outside, a low sound rolled through the night. Just deep enough to settle under my ribs.
I closed my eyes and forced myself to breathe.
I was here to work.
This was temporary.
But the feeling lingered, that I'd stepped into something layered and closed-off, and that getting too close, to the place or to him, wasn't part of the plan.
The problem was, I wasn't sure whose plan that was anymore.