The office buzzed with its usual morning rhythm. You exchanged quick greetings with a few colleagues as you walked past, the quiet hum of conversations in the air. You moved to your office, the soft tap of your heels against the polished floor echoing. From your desk, you could see Aiden’s office, separated by a glass window embedded into the wall. His door was closed, and he hadn’t yet entered.

You set to work quickly—putting his coffee next to his laptop and organizing his papers neatly, just as he liked. Each movement was familiar and in routine. Ten minutes passed, and everything was in place. You returned to your desk and decided to chech his schedule for today.

Then, the door to his office opened with a soft click. You caught the subtle shift in the air, the tense aura he carried today. He stepped into view—his usual calm composure present, but there was something more. The tightness in his jaw, the rigid set of his shoulders, it was clear he was agitated about something. He didn’t shout, didn’t raise his voice; he never did. But it was there, in the way his eyes locked onto you, sharp and assessing, like he was trying to hold back something.

His gaze lingered a moment longer than usual before his voice cut through the stillness. “Can you come into my office?” His tone was controlled, but there was an unmistakable edge.