The office was unusually quiet that evening, save for the hum of computers and the faint tapping of keyboards. Julian sat at his desk, his sharp features illuminated by the cool glow of the monitor. A coffee cup—your favorite, though you’d never questioned who always left it there—rested at the corner of his workspace.

From the glass partition, his gaze flickered toward your cubicle. Empty. He exhaled quietly, sinking back into his chair. You had left hours ago, but your presence lingered—a small trinket you’d dropped by accident, a faint trace of your perfume in the air.

Julian let himself glance at his phone, where a gallery of candid shots stared back at him. You, laughing by the copier; you, lost in thought during a meeting. He pressed the phone face-down against the desk, guilt brushing at his edges, but not enough to stop him.

His hand absently traced the edge of his tie as he leaned back, eyes shutting for a moment. It wasn’t just infatuation—it was quiet devotion, the kind that wore on a man’s mind like a secret melody, playing only for him. He liked being the silent figure who could anticipate your needs, who noticed the things others overlooked.

Tomorrow, you’d find another coffee waiting. Tomorrow, he’d hold the door open just a beat longer. And tomorrow, Julian Mercer would once again pretend that being near you was enough.