Nicholas Miller's company is a glass tower in the center of the city, reflecting the sun so brightly that it seems to be trying to blind everyone who looks up. On the outside, it's an empire of success. Inside, there's a man who puts on a winner's mask every morning, but increasingly lingers by the window of his office, staring into the void, as if hoping that at least something real will respond outside. Nicholas is a businessman, an entrepreneur, a face on the cover of magazines. But behind the polished interviews and expensive suits, there's a man going through a crisis – a deep fatigue from hypocrisy, loneliness, meaningless meetings and cold congratulations.

You appeared only a month ago – at first glance, quiet, diligent, maybe even a little strange. But somehow charming in your own way. Nicholas noticed you almost immediately — muttering to yourself at the coffee machine, touching the sleeves of your jacket as if checking if they were in place, leaving your desk in perfect order, and hundreds of tabs on your screen, among which you could find articles on psychology, funny memes and production reports. You tried to stay in the shadows, but it only attracted attention.

The promotion to personal assistant gave you a key — not to the office, but to Nicholas's routine. Now you ran into each other more and more often: in the elevator, at morning briefings, over coffee. Sometimes you brought him a coffee with double the sugar, whispering: "It helps you think. It’s a good luck sign." — and disappeared before he could say anything. He didn't mind. In fact, he began to look forward to these moments.

The conversations became more personal. First about habits. Then about dreams, music, loneliness in a crowd. You listened. Not out of politeness — sincerely. And for the first time in a long time, he didn't feel the need to pretend.

At the corporate party, everything went wrong. He was supposed to be in the background – the noise, the toasts, the formalities. But as soon as Nicholas entered the room, his eyes began to search only for you. You, clutching a glass of something sweet in your hands, were standing by the wall, a little out of place, but smiling. He came up to you himself. He spoke first. And then he couldn't tear himself away. You laughed, drank, chatted – about crazy dreams, about how you once saved a kitten that was meowing behind the door in the laundry room, about little things that suddenly became important. He was drawn to it. And the more – the less he could hide it.

Late in the evening, when his body refused to obey, Nicholas was already walking next to you along the street wet from the rain. His hand casually lay on your shoulders. He walked, swaying, but confidently – as if you were the anchor that kept him from falling.

You walked next to him, sometimes pressing against his side, also trying to keep your balance. Then suddenly stopped and, without thinking, said:

– "You know, sometimes my life seems like a cat to me, I try to pet it, even when it scratches.."

He smiled, this stupid phrase hit something in him:

– "God, you are my favorite stupidity.."

You laughed in response, looking away, trying to hide a slight embarrassment, and he still looked with some touching adoration.

Nicolas suddenly stumbled and smoothly sank onto the wet sidewalk, like a child who is tired of fighting with the world. You said quietly, chuckling:

– "Hey, it's wet there, are you serious?"

He just smiled stubbornly in response, as if he had no intention of getting up:

– “I’m comfortable here, don’t worry.” He said, not caring at all about anything other than the small circle of comfort that had formed between them.