The Offer

Alie

The morning light is too clean, too sharp, like the sun is trying to scrub the night out of me.

I lie there longer than I should, watching it creep across the wall. Everything looks ordinary—the same old curtains, the same quiet apartment—but my body doesn’t believe it. My chest still feels tight, my pulse quick for no reason I can name.

Coffee first. Always coffee. If I move through the steps—filter, water, switch—I can make the morning mechanical, safe.

The mug warms my hands, but it doesn’t chase away the echo of that café: his voice, calm and steady, and the way my skin still hums where he touched me.

The place smells faintly of rain even though the windows are closed. That’s what gets me first. Not the missing time from last night, not the half-formed dreams, but the smell. It shouldn’t be here.

I try to shake it off. There’s work to do. I open my laptop and bury myself in spreadsheets, emails, numbers that never stop adding up.

But little things keep tugging at me—the chair at the table slightly turned, the cursor blinking in a document I don’t remember leaving open, the faintest impression in the dust by the window frame, as if someone brushed past it.

It’s nothing. I tell myself that out loud. It’s absolutely nothing.

The hours slide by in fits and starts. Calls, files, autopilot chatter. By noon I’ve answered every message twice just to be sure I didn’t imagine them. Still, something feels off, like I’m half a second out of sync with my own life.

When I finally look up from the screen, the coffee’s gone cold. The clock says 12:47. And for no good reason, I think of him again—of Mr. Black and the small, steady smile that looked like patience disguised as kindness.

I stand, stretch, and tell myself I’m fine. It’s just another day.

But it feels like a day that’s watching me back.

By mid-afternoon the light has gone flat and gray, the way it does before rain.

I’ve answered every email, cleared every file, even scrubbed my inbox just to have something to do. Productivity as therapy—it’s not elegant, but it’s what I’ve got.

Still, the quiet feels unnatural. My phone hasn’t buzzed once. Not a client, not a spam text, nothing. The silence is so complete it starts to sound like a hum, low and constant, as if the building itself is waiting for something.

At four-thirty, a single notification finally breaks through.

Unknown number.

My breath sticks. I tell myself it’s a delivery service or a client using a new line, but I already know.

Curiosity wins, as it always does.

Ms. Alie,

I appreciated our meeting. I believe your skillset deserves more than remote work. I’d like to discuss a potential partnership—something creative, tailored to your strengths.

If you’re interested, reply “yes,” and I’ll send details.

No name. Just Mr. Black in the signature block.

I stare at the message until the words blur.

Partnership. Tailored. It reads like business, but it feels like bait.

I set the phone down and pace. The rational part of me says this is fine—he’s probably just networking, offering a contract, nothing unusual.

But another voice whispers that he’s already inside my head, that he knew exactly how to phrase it so I’d hesitate instead of delete.

I open the fridge, close it again. Tap my mug against the counter.

The message burns behind my eyelids every time I blink.

Finally I type a reply—Appreciate the offer. Could you share more details?—and hover over send for what feels like a full minute.

Then I delete it.

Then I retype it.

Then I send it.

Instant read-receipt.

No answer.

I sit back in my chair, palms damp, pulse ridiculous. The quiet hum returns, louder now, threading through the walls and floor until it feels like it’s coming from inside me.

——

Caine

I know she’ll open it.

Curiosity always wins. You can build a life around routine, armor yourself in logic, and still—when someone offers something personal—you reach for it.

The message sits on my screen, a few simple lines dressed as business. No pressure, no pleading. I’ve learned that the easiest way to make someone say yes is to sound like you don’t need them to.

Ms. Alie,

I appreciated our meeting. I believe your skillset deserves more than remote work. I’d like to discuss a potential partnership—something creative, tailored to your strengths.

If you’re interested, reply “yes,” and I’ll send details.

It’s polite. Distant. Exactly the kind of professional note that lowers defenses.

I press send and listen to the quiet click that follows. Such a small sound for something that changes everything.

I lean back, hands steepled beneath my chin, and watch the screen’s edge. Waiting. Always waiting.

I picture her reading it, the quick flutter of indecision, the way her thumb will hover before she types. She’ll tell herself it’s just work. That’s the beauty of it—how easy it is to mistake control for choice.

The first few minutes crawl. I pour a drink, check the clock, pretend to read a report. The phone stays silent. It’s fine. Patience is the one virtue I never lost.

Then the notification flashes. One reply.

I smile. Not wide—just enough to feel the pull of it at the corner of my mouth. There it is. The first “yes.” The one that matters.

I close the screen and let the city blur behind the glass. Every plan needs momentum, a center of gravity.

Now it has hers.

Tomorrow she’ll think it was her idea to reach back.

It always starts that way.