Chapter 2 Unfinished Business

The office felt impossibly small that morning, even with the sunlight spilling through the windows.

I tried to convince myself it was just the early meeting nerves-but deep down, I knew it wasn't.

Evan was here again sitting two desks away, typing with that same focused intensity I remembered, like nothing had changed... except everything had.

I told myself I was being professional. Strictly professional. But professionalism tends to crumble in the presence of someone who knows all your weak spots.

"Coffee?" Evan's voice startled me. I turned to see him holding two steaming cups.

"I grabbed one for you too. No judgment if it's decaf."

I took the cup without thinking, heat searing my fingers. "Thanks," I murmured, trying to keep my expression neutral.

Neutral was safe, but neutral meant I wasn't about to say anything stupid like I missed you or Why did you leave?

He pulled his chair closer, careful not to touch mine, and opened his laptop. "So, about the campaign..."

And just like that, we were back in work mode. Charts, deadlines, client personas-but the old rhythm lingered beneath every discussion and pointed question.

We moved around like dancers who hadn't stepped on each other's toes in years but remembered every step.

Around mid-morning, an email pinged in my inbox. I barely glanced at the subject line before my stomach dropped: Reminder: Friday's conference call with Evan's team.

I groaned quietly. Evan looked up from his screen, eyebrow raised. "Everything all right?"

"Yeah," I said too quickly. "Just... scheduling."

He smiled faintly. A knowing smile. "Still avoiding me, huh?"

I felt my cheeks heat up. "I am not avoiding you."

"You are," he said softly, leaning back in his chair, eyes steady. "But that's okay. I get it."

And suddenly, the office-the charts, the deadlines, the client's campaign-disappeared from my mind. There we were again, two people circling old wounds.

Later, during lunch, I tried to put some distance between us. I grabbed my salad and sat at the far end of the cafeteria, hoping he wouldn't notice. But of course, he did.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked.

I froze. "Uh... sure," I said, motioning to the empty chair.

Halfway through the meal, I caught myself studying him, how his hair had grown just enough to curl at the nape of his neck, how the laugh lines around his eyes had deepened. I hated that I noticed. I hated that I cared.

"I still don't know why you left," I said suddenly, quieter than I intended.

Evan froze mid-bite. His fork hovered in the air. "I thought... I thought it was the right thing to do at the time," he said finally. "I wasn't ready. And I didn't want to drag you down with me."

I stared at him, trying to read between the words, trying to feel anger instead of longing. "And now?"

He looked away, almost imperceptibly. "Now... I don't know. Maybe I was wrong."

The cafeteria felt impossibly loud then, with the chatter of coworkers fading into white noise. Time slowed, the pause stretching between us, heavy with unspoken apologies, unfinished sentences, and... maybe hope.

I pushed my salad around with my fork, suddenly finding it fascinating how many ways lettuce could be dressed without actually tasting good. Anything to avoid looking at him.

"Harper..." Evan's voice was low, cautious, like he was testing the waters. "Do you... Regret anything?"

The question hit harder than I expected. Regret? Of course, I had it. Every late-night argument I'd replayed in my head, every unspoken word that got lost between us. Every time I imagined him with someone else, the ache had been almost physical.

"I..." I paused. My mouth suddenly felt dry. "Sometimes. But I don't know if it's the leaving or... everything that came before."

He nodded slowly, as if he understood perfectly. "I think about that too," he admitted. "About what we had, what we lost... and whether it could have been different."

I wanted to say something...anything that would bridge the two-year gap. But all that came out was a soft, "Yeah."

We ate in silence for a moment, but it wasn't uncomfortable exactly. It was... heavy, weighted with the things we weren't saying. Things we were both too scared to confront, yet too drawn to ignore.

Finally, he broke the silence with a small, almost teasing smile. "Remember that time you tried to make me coffee with cinnamon in it?"

I groaned. "Don't remind me. That was a disaster. You hated it."

"No, I didn't hate it," he said, leaning back in his chair, eyes glinting with memory. "I hated that I laughed so hard I spilled it all over your notes."

I laughed too, despite myself. Just a little, but enough to crack the tension. Enough for him to notice. His smile softened, just a fraction, and suddenly the cafeteria felt warmer, smaller, more intimate.

Then a ping from my laptop reminded me we were still at work. The spell broke. I glanced at the screen-another urgent client email, more deadlines, more pressure.

"I should... get back," I said, reluctantly.

"Yeah," he agreed, standing and gathering his things. "Me too."

We left the cafeteria side by side, but the gap between us was both literal and invisible. And old memories and feelings came back.

As I returned to my desk, I realized two years had passed, but nothing had really changed. And suddenly, that was both terrifying and impossible to resist.

By mid-afternoon, I had buried myself in spreadsheets and client reports, determined to ignore Evan's presence across the room. It mostly worked until the phone rang.

"Harper, this is urgent," said Maya from the reception desk. "The client just called-there's been a... mix-up with their launch materials. They're insisting someone handle it immediately."

My stomach sank. I glanced at Evan. He was already packing up his laptop, eyes sharp and focused. Without thinking, I blurted, "We should take it together. It's big enough that neither of us can do it alone."

He raised an eyebrow but didn't protest. "Agreed. Let's fix it before anyone panics."

By the time we reached the client's office, the tension was thick. Paperwork scattered, designs misaligned, and a nervous assistant hovering in the corner made it clear this was not a simple fix.

I felt my pulse spike not from fear of the mistake, but from having him by my side again, solving problems together like we used to.

"Okay," I said, taking a deep breath. "We divide and conquer. I'll handle the content revisions; you handle the client calls?"

"Perfect," he said, voice calm but steady. The sound of it made something flutter in my chest-a dangerous, familiar flutter I tried to ignore.

Hours passed in a blur of frantic emails, phone calls, and hurried revisions. Somehow, in the chaos, we slipped back into our old rhythm.

His presence wasn't just comforting-it was a spark reminding me why I'd fallen for him in the first place.

At one point, I leaned over a stack of papers to point out a detail, and our hands brushed, and I froze.

He looked at me, and his eyes were wide just for a second, then back to the papers. Nothing more, but that small touch was enough to send my thoughts spinning.

By the time we finally sent the last corrected document to the client, the office had emptied. The quiet was almost surreal after the frantic pace of the day. Evan stretched, letting out a breath that seemed heavier than it should have been.

"Not bad for a day's work," he said, and for a moment, he looked at me in a way that made me forget how to speak. "We make a pretty good team, don't we?"

I smiled, carefully neutral. "Yeah... a good team."

But inside, I felt a tug-old, familiar, and dangerous. Two years apart hadn't erased the connection. If anything, it had sharpened it, and I wasn't sure either of us was ready for what that meant.