Lahat ng Kabanata ng Paperwork and Hearthbeats: Kabanata 131 - Kabanata 140

Behind the female employee there is a white shelving units filled with storage boxes, books, binders, decorative objects and small potted plants. On the right, a large whiteboard is covered with handwritten notes, diagrams, sketches and colourful sticky notes, suggesting project planning, design ideas or production schedules. Brown papers shopping bags are stacked nearby, possibly intended for packing finished products or storing materials. To the left stands a red tailor’s dress on a mannequin torso, mounted on a stand. It is decorated with white circular markings. Harper walked to the back of the room to Knox’s workspace. Numerous design materials and sewing supplies are spread neatly across the large white worktable. Several spools of thread in various colours– including red, carol, black, grey and white– stand upright near the front edge of the desk.Beside them are colour swatches and fabric sample cards displaying rows of different thread colour.

Knox looked up, his parrot green eyes blinking as if he were only just realizing that time existed in the real world and was not just a concept to be ignored in favour of colour theory. He glanced at Harper’s phone, then at the clock on the wall, letting out a long, dramatic sigh of disappointment. “Time,” he muttered, as if it were a personal enemy. "The absolute thief o' creativity." He slumped back into his chair, thought his eyes were still dancing with the adrenaline of the breakthrough. He looked down at the mess of swatches, sketches and scribbled notes on his desk. "No' this very second," he said, waving a hand dismissively at the chaos. "I've got tae actually sketch these visions afore they vanish clean oot ma heid. Need tae turn this madness intae somethin' a pattern maker willnae take one look at an' burst oot laughin'." He paused, his expression shifting from manic excitement to a brief moment of practical calculation.“Alright,” Harp

Knox began pacing the small space behind his desk, his movement jerky and caffeinated. He was gesturing wildly with his hands, carving shapes in the air as if he were trying to sculpt the very concept of Oliver’s laughter. “Ach, Harper, if he is laughin', ye're in danger. No' physical danger—guidness, naw—but emotional peril! Ye're fallin' for the most dangerous kind o' man... the one who's secretly interestin'!” he stopped abruptly, pointing a finger at her with a sudden, piercing look of intensity. “Haud on a wee minute. If he's cookin'... an' he's laughin'... an' he is smilin'...” Harper interrupts him before he can finish. “Will you stop,” she said playfully. “He is just am man, he has even snored on occasion.” Knox let out a sound that was halfway between a gasp and a choke, clutching his throat as if he had been physically struck.Knox stumbled back a step, his parrot green eyes bulging. “He snores?

“You can leave your things in the hallway,” Oliver said, gesturing toward the entryway. “Would you like something to drink while you wait? I have a decent white wine, or I can make you some tea if you are still in ‘work mode’.” “Tea sounds lovely,” Harper said moving to sit on a bar chair by the island. She leaned on the counter with her elbows. “I am a little disappointed you are not wearing an apron or something.” Her tone was playful and she had a smirk on her face as she recalled Knox’s drawing. He pauses, a wooden spook halfway to the pot. He turns to look at her, meeting that smirk with a deadpan expression that does not quite hide the glint of amusement in his blue eyes. “An apron?” he repeats, as if the very concept is beneath him. “I am making risotto, Harper, no deep-frying chicken. I think I can manage to keep my clothes clean.” He moves toward the kettle, his movements fluid and eff

“It is nothing like that,” Harper said standing up, walking over to the fridge to place the Parmesan cheese inside. “I am waiting for an email from one of those organisations about collaboration.” She walked over to her purse and got her phone out. “Love self-esteem got back to me, they said they only collaborate with companies advertising feminine hygiene products and they are not currently interested in the fashion industry.” Oliver lets out a long, weary sigh, the sound of a man who has just been pulled back from the brink of a very pleasant evening into the mundane realities of corporate logistics. He turned back to the stone, picking up the spoon to give the risotto one final, vigorous stir. “Love Self Esteem,” he repeats, his voice flat and utterly unimpressed by the name. “The branding is as predictable as the rejection. They are looking for a specific demographic niche, and fashion is too... volatile for them.”