Story 4: The Soft Spot

I saw him the second I stepped out of the elevator.

Noah Brooks stood near the glass wall of the open office, sleeves rolled to his elbows, talking to one of the junior analysts. Dark hair messy from running his hands through it. White shirt that had probably been neat this morning. He laughed at something the analyst said, and the sound carried just far enough to reach me.

“Brooks.”

My voice cut across the floor. Conversations dipped. A few heads turned. Noah looked up, and when his eyes met mine the easy smile faded into something more careful.

I walked toward him without hurry, heels clicking against the polished floor. People moved out of my way.

“In my office. Now.”

He followed.

I left the door open on purpose. Let the floor hear. Let them remember who signed the paychecks. Noah closed it behind him anyway and stood in front of my desk with his hands in his pockets, waiting.

I sat, crossed my legs, and looked him over slowly.

“You were late to the ten o’clock,” I said.

“The client call ran over.”

“Then you should have ended it. I don’t pay you to let other people waste my time.”

“Understood.”

“Do you? Because last week you disagreed with me in front of the entire strategy team. The week before that you corrected a number I used in a board presentation.”

“The number was wrong.”

I leaned back in my chair. “And you thought announcing it in front of twelve people was the smartest way to handle it?”

Silence stretched. He didn’t look away. Most people did.

I stood and walked around the desk until I was close enough to the faint scent of his cologne. Close enough that he had to tip his head slightly to keep my gaze.

“You’re good at your job, Brooks. Annoying, but good. That doesn’t mean you get to forget who runs this place.”

“I haven’t forgotten.”

“Then stop looking at me like you’re waiting for me to slip.”

I held his stare for a second longer than necessary, then stepped back and returned to my chair.

“The investor dinner is Thursday. You’re coming. Wear something that doesn’t look like you slept in it. And try not to contradict me in front of people who write large checks.”

He nodded once. “Anything else?”

“Yes. Stop hovering around the vending machines on the twenty-third floor at two in the afternoon. It’s distracting.”

A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Get out.”

He turned and left. The door clicked shut.

I sat very still for a long moment, staring at the space where he had stood. My pulse was faster than it should have been. I reached for my coffee and found the cup empty.

This was becoming a problem.

I made a habit of cutting Noah Brooks down in front of other people. I assigned him the worst travel schedules. I questioned every recommendation he made, even when I already knew he was right. I told myself it was about control, about reminding the entire company that no one was indispensable.

The truth was less professional.

The truth was that every time he pushed back without flinching, every time he looked at me like he saw straight through the performance, something warm and dangerous settled under my ribs. Teasing him, cornering him, making him take it without complaint had become the only way I knew how to keep him close without admitting I wanted him there.

I opened my laptop and pulled up the investor dinner list. His name was already added.

I told myself it was because he was useful.

I did not examine the fact that I had checked the seating chart twice to make sure he would be beside me.

Outside my office the floor returned to its usual low hum of keyboards and conversation. Inside, I leaned back and closed my eyes for a second.

Noah Brooks was becoming a habit I had no intention of breaking.

And the worst part was that I no longer wanted to.