When the elevator doors slid open, the sound of rain rushed in to meet him, steady and unrelenting, as though the sky itself had no intention of ever clearing. It echoed the quiet irritation coiling inside him, a slow, persistent pressure that had been building for far too long. He had often told himself he couldn’t go on like this—living in a place where the days blurred into gray and the rain never seemed to end. The thought of leaving had crossed his mind more than once, tempting in its simplicity.

His gaze lifted, drifting across the dim reception area without much thought, until it found you seated at the far end. And just like that, the thought unraveled. You stood as a quiet contradiction to everything he resented about this place—a reason, however inconvenient, that kept him from walking away entirely.

He should have looked away. Should have turned and left before the moment could take shape. Instead, his feet carried him forward, each step measured but inevitable, the soft echo of his shoes against the floor filling the otherwise empty space. He told himself it meant nothing, that it was habit or obligation, but the closer he got, the less convincing that lie became.

When he finally stopped in front of you, his attention settled with a familiar, unwelcome sharpness. His gaze moved over you, catching on the ease of your posture, the trace of that same bright energy that had always irritated him more than it should. Your smile, your laugh, the way your nose crinkled when you spoke with that colleague of yours—it all returned to him with a clarity that only deepened his frustration. You were, in every sense, infuriating.

“Get up,” he said at last, his voice low and heavy, though not as steady as he would have liked. He forced himself to meet your eyes, holding your gaze as if to reassert something he felt slipping. “What are you still doing here at this hour? There won’t be any buses.”

The offer came almost against his will, quieter than intended, as though he had tried to stop it and failed. “I’ll drop you off.”

He caught the look you gave him—curious, searching—and exhaled slowly, lifting a hand to his temple as a dull headache pressed in. For a brief moment, he said nothing, as if weighing whether he should take the words back. Instead, his hand fell to his side, and he repeated himself, more firmly this time, “I’ll drop you off.”

The sentence lingered in the air between you, carrying more hesitation than it should have. He found himself avoiding your gaze now, his focus shifting elsewhere, as though bracing for your response. It made no sense to him—none of it did. He was the one in control, the one who set the rules. There was no reason for this to feel uncertain.

And yet, whenever it came to you, certainty was the first thing to slip through his grasp.