Chapter 15: He’s Glitching. That’s the Only Explanation

7:58 AM. Monday.

Katherine Brown walked into the office carrying exactly three things:

1. A steaming to-go cup with Caution: Contents May Be Hot (Emotionally and Physically) scrawled on the sleeve.

2. Her laptop, precariously balanced under one arm.

3. Confusion.

Because right there, on her desk, was a folder.

A real, crisp, leather-bound folder.

With her name on it.

Her full name.

Neatly embossed on a plaque.

Katherine A. Brown.

She blinked.

Then looked around. “Is this... a prank?”

Cara peeked over the divider. “What now?”

Katherine pointed. “Who gave me a CEO-level folder? Is this an intervention?”

“It was delivered half an hour ago. Special courier.”

“A courier?! For me? Was it a horseman of the apocalypse in disguise?”

Cara shrugged. “Honestly? Possibly.”

Katherine opened it.

Inside was a detailed prep for the upcoming Brand Strategy Forum. Everything was organized by topic, color-coded, indexed. Her own notes were woven in — edited gently, not erased. Highlighted. Enhanced.

There was a tab labeled: "Kat's Chaos, Translated to PowerPoint."

She clutched it like it was the Holy Grail.

“This is sorcery,” she whispered.

And then —

A sticky note fell out.

Thought you might like structure with your storm.

–S

She stared at the tiny note like it was a love letter.

Then threw it on her desk and declared:

“He’s glitching. That’s the only explanation.”

---

Across the room…

Sebastian Mason was doing nothing special.

Just emailing.

Signing documents.

Pretending he hadn’t spent two hours over the weekend converting her brain-spiral notes into a cohesive strategy because he’d accidentally memorized the way she talked when she was excited. And panicked. And caffeinated.

He didn’t look up when she stormed into his office.

But he felt her.

Like a small chaotic tornado in heels.

“Are you dying?” she demanded.

He blinked. “Good morning, Miss Brown.”

“No, seriously. Is this some billionaire-movie subplot where you find out you have three weeks to live and now you’re suddenly benevolent and mysterious?”

He sighed. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Oh I am dramatic. But this?” — she waved the folder — “This is organized. You practically gave my ideas a narrative arc. That’s suspicious.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Do you not want it?”

“I love it. That’s the problem.”

He stared at her. Then:

“You deserve clarity.”

Oh.

That word again.

Her breath caught. “Excuse me?”

“You said you wanted clarity,” he said, almost too casually. “That’s what I’m offering. One structured storm at a time.”

Her brain short-circuited.

She clutched the folder to her chest and backed out of the office. “I’m gonna go cry in the supply closet for ten minutes. Don’t email me.”

He didn’t.

But when she opened her inbox half an hour later, there was a meme.

A cartoon tornado labeled “Katherine” spinning papers at a stoic skyscraper labeled “Sebastian.”

She snorted loud enough for half the office to turn around.

---

Lunch came with a twist.

Literally.

Katherine reached for her wallet to pay for her usual Thai order — only to be told it was already paid.

By “Mr. M.”

She whipped around, expecting to find Sebastian smugly leaning on something.

Nothing.

Just the receipt, folded neatly, and tucked inside:

“Didn’t want you fighting the line hangry again.”

She nearly cried into her noodles.

---

By 4:00 PM, the office buzzed with spreadsheets and caffeine. Katherine walked toward the break room, mind swirling with too many feelings and not enough labels for them.

As she reached for the coffee pot —

Sebastian appeared behind her.

Not dramatically. Not suddenly. Just… gently.

“Miss Brown.”

She turned, surprised. “You again.”

He held out a tiny box.

She stared. “Is this your heart in here? Because that would really clarify things.”

He ignored that. “It’s a phone stand.”

She blinked. “What?”

“You balance your phone between mugs and books during Zoom calls. It keeps falling. This has adjustable angles.”

She opened the box.

It was a phone stand.

Matte black. Sleek. Elegant.

Too thoughtful.

“Sebastian…”

“Yes?”

“Are you flirting with me via office ergonomics?”

“I’m investing in efficiency.”

She smirked. “You’re terrible at denial, Mason.”

He just looked at her.

And then — he did it again.

Touched her.

Just a hand on her elbow.

Guiding her slightly out of the way as someone walked past.

Quick. Gentle.

But everything inside her lit up like a Christmas tree on Red Bull.

He didn’t even notice. Or if he did, he didn’t show it.

Just walked away. As if he hadn’t just broken the touch barrier like it meant nothing.

Katherine leaned on the counter, completely useless for the next six minutes.

---

5:38 PM. Office Emptying.

She stayed late.

So did he.

And somehow, again, they ended up at the elevator — together.

This time, she didn’t talk.

And neither did he.

Until —

“Miss Brown,” he said softly. “You’re not alone in this.”

She turned to him. “In what?”

He didn’t answer.

But his hand hovered near hers.

Not touching.

Not quite.

Until their fingers brushed.

Just once.

Like an accident.

Only... it wasn’t.

And they both knew it.

When the elevator opened, she walked out with shaky knees.

He stayed inside.

Just watching.

---

The elevator doors slid open on the underground parking level.

Katherine stepped out first — heart still buzzing from that not-an-accident brush of fingers — and pretended she wasn’t painfully aware of his presence at her back.

He followed in silence. The kind of silence that filled the air like velvet — soft, weighty, and strangely electric.

Their footsteps echoed down the dimly lit corridor. Hers light and brisk, his steady and unfazed.

And then —

They stopped.

Because their cars?

Were parked right next to each other.

Of course they were.

She blinked at her dusty little hatchback.

Then at his sleek, obsidian-black machine that probably cost more than her student debt and emotional baggage combined.

He raised a brow. “Yours?”

“Unless someone else’s car has three empty coffee cups and an emotional support hoodie in the passenger seat — yep.”

A beat.

“Nice color,” he offered dryly.

“Thanks. It’s called ‘Panic Beige.’ Came with a free anxiety spiral.”

He… chuckled.

A real chuckle.

Which only made things worse.

She fumbled for her keys, dropped them, and swore quietly. He bent to pick them up at the same time.

Their hands collided.

Again.

She froze.

His fingers closed around hers — just for a moment — as he passed the keys back.

Warm. Solid. Intentional.

“Thank you,” she said, way too softly.

He didn’t answer.

Just unlocked his own car, opened the door, then paused.

“Katherine.”

Oh.

He’d never said her first name like that before.

Not Miss Brown.

Not Brown.

Just…

Katherine.

She looked up. “Yes?”

He hesitated.

Then: “Drive safe.”

She nodded.

Then got into her car and shut the door before she could melt into a human puddle.

---

Traffic was kind. The city wasn’t.

Katherine sang loudly to Taylor Swift just to drown out the memory of his voice. It didn’t work.

And fate?

Still had plans.

Because just as she turned into the underground garage of her apartment complex, headlights swung in behind her.

No.

No freaking way.

She parked.

And so did he.

Two spots down.

She got out of the car slowly, holding her grocery bag like a weapon. “Sebastian?”

He stepped out, just as composed as ever. “Evening.”

“Are you following me?”

He blinked. “Are you accusing me of stalking because we live in the same building?”

She squinted. “We don’t.”

He held up a key fob. “Just moved in. Fifty-third floor.”

She gaped. “You’re joking.”

“I don’t joke.”

“Right. You monologue.”

A tiny smile. “Would you prefer I quote literature instead?”

“Only if it’s Pride and Prejudice. And only if you’re Mr. Darcy in a wet shirt.”

His smile deepened.

And then, to her horror, he actually quoted:

“You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

Her jaw dropped.

“You did not just drop Austen at the elevator.”

“I did.”

“I —” she faltered. “Okay, I’m weirdly impressed.”

They entered the building together.

The elevator dinged open.

Again.

And suddenly everything felt… suspended.

Quiet.

They stepped in.

Just the two of them.

Again.

The doors slid shut.

He pressed 53.

She pressed 46.

And they stood there.

Breathing.

Waiting.

Both pretending the air wasn’t thick with tension and some unspoken something that refused to die.

Just before the doors opened, he turned his head and murmured:

“You make the office... less unbearable.”

Her heart stuttered.

And she replied, because that was the only way she knew how to survive this:

“And you make my brain malfunction on a weekly basis.”

The doors slid open.

She stepped out.

Turned back.

And smiled.

“Goodnight, Mr. Mason.”

His eyes didn’t leave hers.

“Goodnight, Katherine.”

---