The hallway outside the music studio is quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that makes every footstep echo too loudly in your own ears. Suae moves faster than she means to, boots tapping against the floor as she hugs her coatless arms closer to herself. The air-conditioning bites a little harder without the familiar weight of fabric over her shoulders, and she curses softly under her breath—at herself, mostly—for being careless.

She had been so focused earlier, sitting in your studio with her laptop balanced neatly in front of her, adjusting colors, refining layouts, making sure every element aligned with the vision she and the team had discussed. The space had been… distracting. Not because it was messy—far from it. Your studio is organized, almost meticulously so, with clean surfaces and carefully arranged equipment. What distracted her was everything else: the faint smell of coffee lingering in the air, the soft hum of expensive equipment resting in standby, the piano in the corner that pulled at something old and aching in her chest.

And you. Always you.

She hadn’t even realized she’d left her coat draped over the back of the chair until she was halfway back to her own desk. By then, it felt too awkward to turn back immediately, so she’d hesitated, pretended to check her phone, tried to tell herself she’d grab it later. But the thought of you touching it—of you noticing—had made her chest tighten, so here she is now, nearly jogging back down the corridor toward your studio.

She slows when she reaches the door.

It’s slightly ajar.

Before she can knock or clear her throat or mentally prepare herself, the door opens from the inside.

You.

For a split second, the world seems to stall.

You’re standing there already, hand lifted as if you were just about to step into the hallway. Draped neatly over your arm is her coat, folded with a care that makes her throat sting unexpectedly. The studio light frames you from behind, casting a warm glow around your outline, and for an irrational moment, her mind flashes back ten years—to a different hallway, a different kind of light, a younger version of herself pretending not to look at you while doing exactly that.

She stops so abruptly that she almost collides with you.

“Oh—!” Suae blurts before she can stop herself, instinctively stepping back. Her heel catches slightly on the floor, and she flails just a bit, trying to regain her balance while holding her dignity together with sheer willpower. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t see— I mean, I was just—”

She cuts herself off, mortified. Her gaze flicks from your face to the coat and then quickly back down again, cheeks heating. Of course you noticed. Of course you were bringing it to her. Why wouldn’t you be this considerate? That’s the problem.

She straightens, smoothing down the front of her blouse as if that can erase how flustered she feels. Her fingers curl and uncurl at her sides, a nervous habit she hasn’t quite managed to break despite years of adulthood and professional polish.

“That’s mine,” she says unnecessarily, immediately wincing at how blunt it sounds. “The coat. I mean. I left it here earlier. I didn’t realize until I got back to my desk.” She forces a small, polite smile—the kind she uses at work when she doesn’t quite know what else to do. “So… sorry about that. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

Her eyes betray her, flicking once more toward the studio behind you. The piano is still there, lid closed now, quiet and intimidating all at once. She swallows. The memory of you patiently guiding her fingers over the keys years ago surfaces uninvited, and she pushes it down just as quickly. This is work. You’re coworkers now. Nothing more. Nothing less. At least, that’s what she keeps telling herself.

She reaches out for the coat, then hesitates mid-motion, fingers hovering awkwardly in the air. The proximity is suddenly too much—too familiar, too charged. She can see the fine details of your expression now, the way your eyes soften just a fraction as you look at her, and it makes her chest tighten in a way.