[Rae’s POV]
The Nexus Technologies rep looks like someone ordered "corporate millennial" from a catalog—tailored blazer, statement sneakers, enthusiasm that borders on medically concerning.
"We're reimagining our lobby experience," she explains, gesturing at photos of their current space. "Something that says 'innovative' but also 'we have a soul.'"
Miles and I sit across from her in Florisight's modest meeting area—three chairs and a table we rescued from a going-out-of-business sale. Not exactly Fortune 500 vibes, but our arrangements speak for themselves.
"Weekly installations," she continues. "Something fresh, dynamic. The kind of thing that makes people stop scrolling Instagram long enough to actually look up."
This is the kind of steady contract that could transform our cash flow from "constant cardiac event" to "merely stressful." I open my mouth to pitch, but Miles beats me there.
"You want living art that evolves with your brand identity," he says, pulling up projections on his tablet. "Seasonal themes that reinforce your quarterly messaging while maintaining visual cohesion."
I blink. That's exactly what I was going to say, except with more numbers attached.
"The installation schedule would align with your board meetings," I add, picking up the thread without thinking. "Maximum impact during high-traffic periods, with maintenance windows that don't disrupt your workflow."
"We've mapped out a twelve-month rotation," Miles continues, sliding a spreadsheet toward her. "Cost-benefit analysis shows ROI through employee satisfaction surveys—studies indicate biophilic design increases productivity by up to fifteen percent."
"Which means your lobby investment pays for itself in reduced turnover," I finish. "Happy employees don't job-hunt. They just enjoy the dahlias."
The Nexus rep's head swivels between us like she's watching tennis. We finish each other's sentences three more times. Miles anticipates my pivot to sustainability; I catch his setup for the cost comparison. The rhythm is automatic, muscle memory from hundreds of client meetings.
Somewhere in the performance, something real slips through. The way he glances at me before making a point, checking if I'm ready to catch it. The way I lean slightly toward him when he talks numbers, unconsciously drawn into his orbit.
We're supposed to be selling Florisight's professional unity, but what we're actually selling is us—the version that works, that clicks, that makes sense.
"I love it," the rep announces, pen already moving toward the contract. "When can you start?"
Miles and I exchange looks—genuine surprise, then barely suppressed triumph.
"Next Monday," we say simultaneously.
She laughs. "You two are adorable. How long have you been married?"
The question lands like a piano dropped from significant height. Miles's expression does something complicated; mine probably matches.
"We're not—" I start.
"Business partners," Miles finishes. "Just business partners."
"Sure," she says, clearly not believing us. She signs the contract anyway.
Outside, the afternoon sun feels like vindication. We've just landed a twelve-month corporate account with a tech company that actually pays invoices on time—the holy grail of small business clients.
"We should celebrate," I say, then immediately regret it. Celebration implies closeness. Closeness implies acknowledging things we've been aggressively not acknowledging. "I mean, if you want. You probably have things. Plans. A very busy schedule of avoiding me."
Miles's mouth twitches. "I could eat."
"Ruby's?" The suggestion escapes before strategic thinking can intervene. Ruby's Diner—our place for eight years. Terrible coffee, perfect grilled cheese, waitresses who remember our orders and judge our life choices.
He hesitates long enough for my stomach to attempt origami. Then: "Yeah. Okay."
The walk there takes twelve minutes. We spend ten of them in silence, shoulders occasionally brushing in ways that feel accidental but statistically improbable.
Ruby's hasn't changed since we discovered it—still the same cracked vinyl booths, still the same neon sign missing the 'R', still the same inexplicable taxidermied fish watching customers with glassy disapproval.
Margie sees us coming and starts pouring coffee before we sit. "Thought you two broke up," she says, sliding cups onto our usual table. "Haven't seen you together in weeks."
"We're not together," I clarify.
"We were never together," Miles adds.
Margie rolls her eyes with the weariness of someone who's watched us orbit each other for years. "Two grilled cheeses, extra pickles on hers, tomato soup for him. You want the fries to share or are we pretending you don't do that?"
"Share," Miles says, at the same time I say, "Separate."
Margie brings them to share.
The food arrives, and somewhere between the first bite and the third, the tension starts bleeding out. Maybe it's the familiar booth, maybe it's the reliably mediocre coffee, maybe it's just exhaustion from maintaining hostilities.
"So," Miles starts, his voice cracking. He clears his throat, and as soon as he opens his mouth again, he seems to… change his mind. Dips his grilled cheese into tomato soup like the chaos gremlin he secretly is. Says something completely different, I can say by the terror in his eyes. "A vendor tried to sell me 'artisanal moss' yesterday."
I nearly choke on my pickle. The distraction worked. "Artisanal moss. Like it was crafted by tiny hipster elves?"
"Hand-foraged from Pacific Northwest old-growth forests. Sustainable harvesting practices. He had a certificate." Miles's expression is perfectly deadpan. "There was a wax seal."
"A wax seal. For moss."
"The moss had a more impressive resume than I do." He's fighting a smile now. "Apparently it's been featured in three wellness retreats and a celebrity meditation room."
I'm laughing—actually laughing, the kind that hurts my ribs. "Did you buy any?"
"I told him we'd need to see the moss's references first. He looked genuinely offended."
The conversation flows easier after that. I tell him about Beatrice's latest power plays—the way she's positioning board members like chess pieces, the pressure to accelerate the Dorian timeline. He listens without mentioning Dorian directly, and I don't bring up the night at his apartment or the morning I left without saying goodbye.
We're pretending. But it's comfortable pretending. The kind we used to do before everything got complicated.
Miles reaches across the table and steals a fry off my plate. The motion is automatic—muscle memory from hundreds of shared meals. His fingers brush the edge of my hand as he pulls back, and he doesn't apologize because he never used to apologize. This is just what we do.
Something cracks open in my chest.
This. This is what I've been missing. Not just the sex—though my body has opinions about that—not just the tension or the almost-moments. But this. The easy comfort of being known. The relief of not performing. The way he makes me laugh at artisanal moss like the world isn't falling apart around us.
We walk back to the warehouse with shoulders almost touching, the afternoon sun warm on my face. Miles is telling me about a formula error he caught in last quarter's projections, something about tax implications that should be boring but isn't, because it's him explaining it.
And that's when it hits me—the realization I've been running from for weeks, maybe years.
I'm in love with him.
Have probably been in love with him since he defended me to my father in Beatrice's dining room. Since he agreed to this insane arrangement despite every reason not to. Since he showed up at midnight with spreadsheets and stayed for a decade.
I'm in love with Miles, and I'm sleeping with someone else because I'm too afraid to risk losing exactly this—the friendship, the partnership, the way he steals my fries without asking.
The warehouse door looms ahead. Miles reaches for the handle.
I'm in love with him, and I have no idea what to do about it.