Legal Affairs

4

As I make my way down the stark, dimly lit hallway, my steps echo off the concrete walls, the only sound accompanying the hum of the distant city traffic seeping through the vents. I'm mulling over the inconvenient mishap of locking my keys inside, grateful that I handed Oliver a spare set. I mean, what kind of responsible adult does that? Yet here I am, doing exactly that—nothing more, nothing less.

I need to chill out, seriously shake off this stress. My phone vibrates in my pocket, a message from Oliver lighting up the screen: "2 Minutes away." Always on time, that one.

The elevator dings, its doors sliding open, and there he is—Oliver, a little disheveled from the rush but irritatingly appealing in his slightly rumpled suit. Why am I even noticing this?

"Hey," he greets me with a smile that could light up the gloomy corridor.

"Thanks so much, I don't know what I would have done without you," I manage to say, returning his smile despite myself.

"Don't worry about it," he says casually as he pulls out the keys. He unlocks my office with a swift, practiced motion, and I step inside. The familiar scents of leather and oak hit me—the undeniable signature of this space that's as meticulously organized as a completed jigsaw puzzle.

"You know, I'm always happy to help," Oliver says, handing me the key. There's a warmth in his tone that makes me wonder why he always has to be so... likeable. "And you can keep this key. I've made sure to make spares."

"Thanks," I reply, taking the key from him. Seriously, what's with this guy? He's like a human golden retriever.

He hesitates, his fingers brushing against mine as he hands over the key. "Noah," he begins, his voice dipping into a more serious register. "I was wondering...would you maybe want to get a drink sometime?"

"I-i can't," I stammer, more harshly than intended as I pick up my keys from a pile of files on the cardboard box.

"Right," he nods, understanding yet pushing just a bit. "It's just a drink. Not like I'm asking you to marry me or anything."

He pauses, watching me with those earnest eyes that make it so hard to be firm. "I know," he continues, "but I'd like to get to know you better, outside of the office."

I squint at him, skeptical. He knows everything already—my father's death, my mom's battles, my whole fortress of trust issues.

"I'll think about it. I have a lot going on right now," I say, evading.

"Hey, I'll walk you to your car," he offers, already moving towards the exit.

"You really don't have to do that," I call after him, but he's already committed to the gesture.

We walk in silence to my car. The parking garage is cool and shadowy, the fluorescent lights flickering slightly, casting long shadows that dance silently around us. It's an atmosphere that lends itself to confessions, to the sharing of secrets not suitable for the light of day.

"So," he attempts to break the silence.

"So," I echo, my voice tinged with a reluctance that's tinged with curiosity.

"You've had a pretty rough week, how're you doing?" he ventures.

"How am I feeling?" I ask, a bit irritated. "I'm feeling fine. Why wouldn't I be fine? Just because my Mom texted me out of the blue after five years? Just because my father died, and she wasn't even there for the funeral? Just because I haven't spoken to her since then?" Honestly I don't know why I'm telling him this. But he knows it all so does it matter? It all comes tumbling out, raw and unfiltered. Damn. He asked how I was doing. Not my entire biography.

"Sorry," I mumble, realizing I've said too much as we stop beside my car, a sleek shadow under the harsh lights of the parking garage.

"It's fine," he assures me, his voice soft.

"Anyway, thanks for helping me tonight," I say as I fumble with my keys, not quite ready to look him in the eye.

"You're welcome," he replies. He leans in slightly, close enough for me to see the earnest concern in his eyes, to feel the warmth of his breath. It's a proximity that feels more intimate than it should.

I turn my face away. "I should go."

"Right, yeah," he agrees quickly, stepping back, his expression flitting from embarrassed to composed in a flash. "Goodnight."

"Night," I say, slipping into my car.

As I drive off, I can't help but think about his invitation. Meeting outside the office? Yes he picks up my food, knows my coffee order heart, has a key to my house, and knows all of my passwords. But we've never actually spent any time together.

It's not a date, and he's not a friend. He's my assistant.

He's cute, and sweet, and I have no idea what he sees in me, but it doesn't matter.

I don't really do friendships. I don't. Except for Chantel she's a different story. But the only things I'm focused on my chance to get a promotion, make partner, and hopefully not shit my brains out because of my family drama.

I've already got enough of that.

I have no time for a relationship, and definitely no time for an assistant who is too good at his job and thinks he can get away with being a nice guy. Too much of a nice guy.

And yet.

As I drive away, his invitation echoes in my mind. It's not a date, and he's not a friend—he's my assistant, and he's good at his job, maybe too good. My thoughts drift to the way his eyes sparkle when he smiles, the dimple in his left cheek, the way his shoulders fill out his suit.

No. Stop it, Noah.

I'm not looking for love, and neither is he. He's just a friendly colleague who happens to work for me. Nothing more, nothing less.