Talk To Me

Chapter Five

Present

Emma's pulse spiked for a moment as the memory of that night resurfaced, too sharp to ignore. She inhaled deeply, steadying herself, watching Oliver disappear down the corridor.

Inside his office, Oliver shut the door behind him, exhaling as he ran a hand through his hair. Emma was a nice girl, sure, but he had never intended to sleep with her. It had happened anyway.

Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the weight of too many ghosts pressing on his chest that night. Either way, she had made it easy—telling him to forget, brushing it off as if it had meant nothing. He should have felt guilty, but instead, he only felt relief.

His stomach growled as he reached his desk, the hunger clawing at his insides. The mess of paperwork scattered across the surface made him sigh. He had neglected his work for days, and now the consequences stared back at him in ink and unfinished reports.

The office was small but functional—large enough to hold an imposing dark-wood desk, a computer, and a well-worn leather chair. A bookshelf stood to the side, half-filled with manuals and a few untouched novels. Against the opposite wall sat a modest two-seat couch with a small table in front of it. The walls, once white, had yellowed slightly with time, making the space feel older than it was.

Oliver sank into his chair, pressing the power button on his computer. The machine whirred to life, the low hum filling the quiet room. A soft knock interrupted the stillness.

He glanced up. "Yeah?"

The door cracked open, and Emma peeked inside. Her dark ponytail shifted as she tilted her head, the scent of fresh coffee and ham drifting in with her.

"I assume you haven't had breakfast," she said, stepping inside with a tray balanced in her hands.

Oliver furrowed his brows. "You didn't have to do that." His voice was gruff, eyes narrowing as he studied her.

Emma just rolled her eyes, waving a dismissive hand. "Oh, don't worry, it's not like I made it." She set the tray down in front of him with a practiced ease.

He exhaled, placing a hand over his chest in gratitude. "Thank you."

Lowering his gaze, he stirred a spoonful of sugar into his coffee, watching the granules dissolve. He took a slow sip, letting the bitterness settle on his tongue. Emma lingered by his desk, shifting her weight from foot to foot, her fingers worrying at the hem of her apron.

Oliver ignored the tension in the air, pulling a spoon from the tray and bringing it to his mouth. Emma bit her lower lip, her left leg bouncing in a nervous rhythm. She had lied to him.

She hadn't been drunk that night—not enough to forget. She remembered everything. Not just the feeling of his hands on her skin, but the way his voice had slurred as he mumbled about his sister, the light, the forest. His words had made no sense, yet they had unsettled her. Made her question just how much of Oliver's mind was still intact. His voice snapped her out of it.

"Did you need something else?" He placed the spoon down, his gaze pinning her in place.

Emma blinked, realizing she had been staring. "No, I—" She cleared her throat. "I should get back to work." She turned quickly, disappearing out the door before he could respond.

Oliver watched her go, then picked up the sandwich from the tray. He had just taken a bite when a familiar voice cut through the quiet.

"I thought she'd never leave."

Oliver didn't even flinch. He chewed slowly, barely acknowledging the woman who stepped out from behind the bookshelf.

Ann.