The days that followed after that night felt like a dream I didn't want to wake up from.
Rowan didn't ask me to leave after that night. In fact, he quietly made space for me, (not in his office though)—drawer by drawer, key by key. My toothbrush showed up next to his. My sketchbook stayed open on the coffee table. My clothes found a corner of his closet.
We never had the conversation about "us," but everything in the way we touched, looked, and moved around each other said we were more than anything I'd ever been part of.
Mornings began with deep but quiet kisses in the kitchen. He'd make coffee, shirtless, eyes half-open, and I'd sit on the counter just to watch him. Some days we didn't talk much—we didn't need to. He'd run his thumb across my cheek, and that was enough.
At night, the air always felt heavier.
He'd come home late sometimes, jacket slung over his shoulder, tie loose, tension clinging to his skin. I'd wait for him, half-asleep on the couch. He'd sit beside me, pull me into his lap, and just hold me there. Breathing me in. Like I was the only thing keeping him grounded.
And then he'd kiss me. Slowly. Deeply. Like he'd been starving for it, and sometimes it grew into something intense that we did without clothes.
Some nights, it was soft and unhurried—lips lingering, hands exploring gently, like we had forever.
Other nights, it wasn't.
We'd stumble into the bedroom with mouths locked, fingers tugging at clothes, breath sharp, and then we would have sex, as good as it could get.
One night, after, he traced circles on my chest with his finger and said, "You're dangerous, you know."
I turned my head. "Why?"
"Because I wasn't supposed to feel this much."
I stared at him. "What were you supposed to do?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he kissed me again. Soft this time. Almost sad.
That night, I dreamt of him walking away.
---
Her name was Talia.
Sharp eyes, quicker mouth. She worked in marketing, but somehow always knew everything that happened in the building—especially things that weren't in her department.
She was also my best friend.
We'd met during onboarding and clicked immediately. Talia was the kind of person who could call you out and make you laugh in the same breath. She always knew when I was hiding something.
Which made what I was doing now impossible to hide.
Especially when I showed up to work two days in a row wearing the same shirt I'd left the office in.
"Okay," she said, leaning across her desk to block mine. "Spill."
I blinked. "Spill what?"
Her eyebrows shot up. "You're glowing. Like post-vacation, skin-hydrated, cheeks-too-pink kind of glowing. Either you've found a skincare holy grail or you're getting laid."
I tried to keep my face blank. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Uh-huh," she said, smirking. "So, you're just... naturally this soft-eyed and dreamy lately?"
I was about to dodge the question again when Rowan messaged me:
_"Need you upstairs in 5."
My stomach flipped.
I stood quickly. "Gotta run. Meeting."
"Don't play dumb, Jules. You're living in his office. I saw your sketchbook through the glass when I was dropping off the quarterly packet."
I stared at her, my heart racing.
She crossed her arms. "You're really sleeping with the boss?"
I didn't answer.
She sighed, softer now. "Just… be careful, okay? That man's wrapped in secrets."
I nodded.
But part of me already knew it was only a matter of time before one of those secrets found me.
---
A week passed, then two.
Living in Rowan's office became normal faster than I expected. At night, the glass walls were wrapped around us like a quiet space of our own. We'd eat dinner by the window, sometimes in silence, sometimes tangled in soft laughter and half-finished conversations.
Some nights, we curled into each other on the couch and fell asleep before we could even make it to bed. Other nights… well, the couch was comfortable enough for making out, it didn't stand a chance.
It was a strange balance—working in the same building, pretending we were just two people who barely spoke during the day, only to fall into each other's arms the moment we were alone again.
We never called it anything. Not at first.
But one evening, while I was sketching on the floor and Rowan was going over files on the couch, he looked up and said, "I don't want to keep pretending."
I glanced at him. "Pretending what?"
"That we're not together," he said, voice low and sure. "I know we're keeping things quiet at work. But I want to say it, Jules. I want to call you mine."
My chest tightened in a good way.
"You really mean that?" I asked, my cheeks turned all red.
He nodded. "I haven't felt this… close to someone in a long time. I want this to be real, not just some guesses I'm making."
I stood, walked over to him, and sat on his thigh. He wrapped his arms around me like it was second nature.
"Then say it," I whispered softly by his ear before gently licking it.
He blushed slightly. "You're mine."
I leaned in and kissed him. "And you're mine."
That night was different.
It wasn't rushed or driven by need. It was slow, filled with touches that lingered longer than usual, kisses that tasted like something deeper than lust. We moved together like we were learning each other all over again. The kind of closeness that made you forget everything else existed.
Afterward, I lay in his arms, his hand resting on my hip, his lips against the back of my neck.
"Does this mean I can call you my boyfriend now?" I asked quietly.
He chuckled softly. "Only if I can call you mine out loud—even if it's just in here."
I smiled. "Deal."
We drifted off like that—tangled in each other, hearts quiet but full.
No titles at work. No kisses in public.
But in the love we built behind those office doors, we were something real.