[Leo’s POV]
I've been watching her for three days now.
Not in a creepy way—at least I hope not. More like how you watch someone you care about slowly fall apart and can't figure out how to help.
Rory looks exhausted. Dark circles shadow her hazel eyes, and she startles at every sound. Her fingers tremble when she types. She's barely holding it together, and nobody else seems to notice.
Nobody except me. And apparently, Nathan Cole.
That's the part making my stomach churn. He's started appearing near her desk—no deliveries, no reason—just hovering like a vulture circling something wounded.
Right now he's leaning against a filing cabinet ten feet from her cubicle, pretending to check his phone. But his eyes keep drifting toward her. Hungry. Calculating.
My hands curl into fists inside my delivery bag.
I leave an origami crane on her keyboard before she arrives. The next day, a paper butterfly. This morning, a small folded note tucked beside the paper flower I gave her weeks ago, which she's kept—that tiny detail making my heart ache.
I'm here if you need to talk.
Simple words. Maybe too simple. But I don't know what else to offer.
The break room is empty when I find her there, staring into a coffee mug like it holds answers to questions she's afraid to ask. Her cardigan swallows her frame. Her bun is messier than usual.
"Hey." I keep my voice gentle, not wanting to startle her.
She jumps anyway. "Leo. Hi. I didn't hear you come in."
"Sorry. Occupational hazard—delivery guys develop ninja stealth." I attempt a smile. "Mind if I grab some water?"
"Of course not."
I fill a cup at the cooler, taking my time. She's gripping that mug like a lifeline, knuckles white against ceramic.
"Are you okay?" The question comes out softer than intended. "You seem tired lately."
Her laugh is hollow. "Just busy. You know how it is. Spreadsheets. Deadlines. The usual corporate excitement."
She's deflecting. I recognize the maneuver because I do it too—redirect attention, minimize, pretend everything's fine when nothing is.
"Rory." I set down my water and turn to face her fully. "I'm not asking about spreadsheets."
Something cracks in her expression. Just for a second. Then she pastes on that smile again.
"Really, I'm fine. Just haven't been sleeping well. Milo had nightmares last week, and you know how kids are—they recover instantly while parents turn into zombies."
"Okay." I don't push. Pushing doesn't help when someone's holding themselves together with string and hope. "But if you ever want to talk, or just not talk. I'm around."
She stares at me for a long moment, and I watch something shift behind her eyes.
"Actually..." She hesitates, chewing her lower lip. "Would you want to grab coffee after work? Just as friends. I could use some normal."
My heart does something embarrassing. "Yeah. I'd like that."
The café is quiet, tucked into a side street away from the office crowd. We choose a corner booth. Rory orders chamomile tea instead of coffee.
I wrap my hands around my mug, gathering courage. This is either going to help her or destroy any chance I have.
"Can I tell you something?" My voice sounds strange to my own ears. "Something I've been sitting on because I wasn't sure how to bring it up?"
Her face goes still. Wary. "Okay..."
"I know about Viola."
The color drains from her cheeks. She sets down her tea with trembling hands. "What?"
"Your ring." I gesture toward her grandmother's silver band. "You never take it off. Viola wears the same one in every photo. Same hands. Same scar on your thumb."
She's frozen. Barely breathing.
"The posting times line up with when you'd be home from work. The way you tilt your head—it's identical." I take a breath. "I figured it out a few days ago. I've been deciding what to do with it ever since."
"Leo..." Her voice cracks. "I can explain—"
"You don't have to." I lean forward, catching her gaze. "I'm not asking for explanations. I'm not angry. I'm not here to judge you or expose you or whatever terrible thing you're imagining."
Tears well in her hazel eyes. She blinks rapidly, fighting them.
"Then why are you telling me?"
Because I care about you, I think. Because watching you crumble is killing me.
"Because I understand." The words come slowly, pulled from somewhere honest. "When the world makes you invisible, sometimes you have to force people to see you. Sometimes you have to create someone they can't ignore."
A tear escapes, trailing down her cheek. She swipes at it quickly.
"You must think I'm pathetic. Playing dress-up. Pretending to be someone I'm not."
"I think you're brave." The admission surprises us both. "Creating a whole identity, maintaining it for months? That takes guts. And probably more energy than anyone should have to spend just to feel seen."
She laughs—wet, broken, real. "I'm so tired, Leo. I'm so incredibly tired."
"I know."
"Everything's spiraling and I don't know how to make it stop. There are these men—they all want Viola, and they work in our building, and one of them is—" She stops, shaking her head. "You don't need my problems dumped on you."
"Maybe I want them." I reach across the table, not quite touching her hand. "I don't know all the details. I'm not asking you to explain everything. But I want you to know you're not alone in this."
Her eyes meet mine, searching for something. Judgment, maybe. Disgust. Pity.
I hope what she finds is none of those things.
"Whatever you're dealing with," I continue quietly, "whatever mess this has become—I'm here. Not because I expect anything. Not because I'm trying to fix you. Just because."
The silence stretches. She's crying properly now, silent tears she doesn't bother hiding.
"Why?" she whispers. "Why do you care? I'm nobody. I'm the invisible woman in ugly cardigans who everyone mocks when you talk to me."
"You're not nobody." My voice comes out firmer than expected. "You're Rory. You're a mother who checks closets for dinosaurs. You're someone who kept my paper flower on your desk for weeks. You're kind to delivery guys when nobody's watching."
"Leo..."
"You're both of them," I say. "Rory and Viola. And neither version is wrong. Neither version is pathetic. You're just trying to survive. We all are."
She breaks then. Really breaks. Shoulders shaking, hand pressed to her mouth, tears streaming. I don't reach for her—don't want to presume—but I stay. Solid. Present.
When she finally surfaces, her eyes are red and puffy. Mascara smudges her cheeks.
"Thank you," she manages.
"You don't have to thank me for basic human decency."
That earns a watery laugh. "In my experience, basic human decency is rarer than you'd think."
We finish our drinks in comfortable silence. No pressure. No expectations. Just two people who see each other, finally.
Outside the café, evening light paints everything gold. She turns to face me, and something in her expression has shifted. Lighter, maybe.
"Rory?"
"Yeah?"
"You can call me anytime. For anything." I mean it completely. "Three AM dinosaur emergencies. Random panic attacks. Just wanting someone to talk to. I'm here."
She stares at me for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, she hugs me. Brief but fierce, her face pressed against my shoulder.
"Thank you," she whispers again. "For seeing me."
I hold her carefully, heart pounding, knowing this changes everything and nothing.
"Always."