The office was cold. Maybe it was the floor-to-ceiling windows stretching open to the skyline, swallowing every inch of sunlight until the place felt like a polished icebox.
Maybe it was the hum of the air conditioning, constant, low, indifferent, even when the city outside boiled in humidity or soaked itself in rain.

Or maybe it was him.

I arrived early. There was something about being first, unlocking the quiet, feeling the building breathe around me. It made me feel sharper. More prepared. Like I could grab control with both hands and not let go, no matter how slippery life got.

Nicholas wasn’t in yet. His door was closed. The light was off. But the space still felt full somehow, like even when he wasn’t visible, he was stitched into the walls, into the pulse of the building itself.

I logged into my computer, hands trembling slightly as I pulled up the morning’s meetings. Another internal budget review.

Two vendor calls. One last-minute briefing he’d probably demand rewritten by lunchtime.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard longer than necessary, the faint shake of them too familiar now.

Tired. Nauseous. Hot and cold all at once. And underneath it all, the undeniable, terrifying truth I still hadn’t said out loud.

Pregnant.

It didn’t feel real. It felt like a dream stitched together by fear and hormones and exhaustion, taped into my ribs with the thinnest hope that somehow, I could pretend normalcy a little longer.

I hadn’t told anyone.

Because I didn’t know who to tell.

Daniel?
Nicholas?

The last time I slept with Daniel had been less than three weeks ago, a desperate, hollow attempt to reclaim something that had been slipping through my fingers for months.

Seven minutes of duty, not affection. Seven minutes of pretending we were still two people who chose each other.

Afterward, he rolled over and started texting someone else.

I went to the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror until the numbness settled in again.

That was the last night Daniel touched me. The last time I even thought maybe saving us was possible.

And now…just as the thought threatened to undo me, the soft, sure sound of footsteps caught my ear.

Nicholas walked past my desk.

One glance, one inhaled breath, and the air tilted sideways.

His scent ghosted after him. The soft thud of his shoes against the marble floors. The way his shirt sleeves were pushed up just far enough to expose strong wrists and the hint of veins running beneath golden skin.

It was absurd, the way my body reacted. Like I was nineteen again and he’d winked across a bar, not a grown woman who had seen every side of heartbreak.

I crossed my legs under the desk like that might anchor me back into my own skin.

It didn’t. He didn’t glance over. But the electricity he left in his wake clung to me long after he disappeared into his office.

I bent my head over my work, blinking hard at the contract drafts on my screen. The numbers and names blurred together, none of them quite sticking. I forced myself to double-check each line, highlighting errors, flagging missed clauses.

Focus, I told myself. Focus or you’ll drown.

Twenty minutes later, the soft shuffle of papers behind me made every nerve in my spine light up.

I didn’t need to turn to know it was him.

Nicholas leaned over my chair, his arm brushing lightly against the backrest as he studied the screen with me.

“You missed a zero,” he said, voice low, the heat of him too close, too steady.

I gripped the mouse tighter, swallowing the instinctive shudder that wanted to run through me.

“Fixing it now,” I managed, clearing my throat.

He didn’t move away immediately.

For a breathless second, he stayed, just hovering close enough that I could feel the weight of his body behind mine, the faint warmth of him bleeding through the cold air of the office.

I didn’t dare turn. And then, just as abruptly, he was gone. The sound of his retreating footsteps disappearing into the hollow silence he left behind.

I stared at the screen, blinking rapidly until the numbers blurred again and I had to close my eyes for a long moment just to remember how breathing worked.

The office might have been cold.

But my skin was burning.