It started with an assignment.
An internal audit. A suspicious trail of financial anomalies. A report that didn't match up with any of the procurement logs from the past quarter.
Ren had known something was off when a server flag triggered a low-priority redirection loop hidden behind a mislabelled vendor code. Most wouldn't have caught it—most didn't even know what to look for. But he did. Because he always noticed the quiet things.
Just like he noticed her.
Aika Tanaka, now the firm's external legal consultant, had been assigned to the same fraud investigation team to provide legal counsel and build a case if needed. She didn't know the IT systems, but she knew how to ask the right questions.
Ren didn't speak much in their first team huddle. But when the room had grown quiet and all eyes turned to him, he spoke with careful clarity, showing them the code paths and document irregularities.
Aika listened closely.
And unlike others, she didn't interrupt him.
That was the beginning.
The next week, they worked side-by-side.
Her legal pad was always open, notes scribbled in tight, efficient handwriting. His monitor split into quadrants of logs, live dashboards, and flagged anomalies.
They didn't talk much. But they worked in sync. Like hands that had once reached for the same railing in the storm.
One afternoon, she leaned over to pass him a hard copy report—her fingers brushing his as he took it.
It was a fleeting touch.
A fraction of a second.
But Ren's breath caught in his throat like it had been pulled through the cage of his ribs.
Her hand was warm. Steady. And soft in a way that clashed with the sharpness of her eyes.
She didn't notice the touch lingered too long for him. She was already turning back to her notes, flipping a page.
He stared at the space her fingers had touched.
Then he folded his hands together. To still the shaking.
Two days later, they were reviewing the audit trail from Procurement Line B-17. One of the printed attachments slipped from her binder and fluttered to the floor.
"I've got it," she said.
So did he.
They both reached at the same time, heads lowering.
He froze.
Because her face was suddenly inches from his.
Her hair had fallen slightly out of its tie, brushing her cheek. Her eyes were focused on the paper. Her lips were parted slightly in thought, not speech.
And Ren—who had spent seventeen years drawing her from memory—found his breath stolen by the reality of her this close.
A single second stretched.
He inhaled.
She smelled of cedarwood and something faintly citrus. The kind of scent that didn't linger but etched itself into memory like soft ink on parchment.
She looked up then, eyes meeting his—but only for a flicker. A neutral glance.
And then she looked away. "Thanks," she said simply, retrieving the page.
He said nothing.
Because there was nothing safe to say when his heart was a hurricane and she was standing in the eye of it.
The late nights were worse.
When most had gone home. When the hum of the office dulled and only task lights lit the space.
That was when she was most focused. Reviewing documents. Cross-referencing code audits. Reading his emailed findings with the quiet intensity of someone who had built their life on precision.
And Ren would steal glances.
Not because he was weak.
But because it was the only time he let himself see her fully.
He watched the way she chewed her pen cap when the numbers didn't make sense. The way she pulled her sleeves up when she was about to argue a point. The way her lashes lowered ever so slightly when she was thinking hard about a clause in the corporate liability agreement.
Each gesture was a record he kept.
Not just in mind. But in heart.
A silent catalogue—filed away not for analysis, but reverence.
She praised him once.
"Sharp thinking," she said after he traced an inconsistency that had stumped three auditors.
He looked down. "It's just pattern recognition."
"No," she said. "It's clarity."
He didn't respond.
Because praise from her was lightning. And he wasn't sure he could survive being struck twice.
Every day, he fell a little further into the abyss of loving her.
And every day, she stood just close enough to burn him with the warmth of her presence… without ever knowing he was already ash.
She doesn't know he's watching. She doesn't know she's the centre of every heartbeat he's ever tried to quiet. But how long can silence hold back a storm?