Emily was focused, very focused in fact, on the paperwork in front of her—more like a mountain of paperwork that never seemed to lessen. She was in the zone—reading over, correcting, signing off— completely focused, until she wasn’t. The second you popped your head into her office, with that easy grin you always seem to wear, her attention was no longer on the file in front of her but on you.

You walk in with your hands behind your back, clearly carrying something, and that mischievous little look in your eyes you often get when you’re about to pull her away from work. “Hey you! You busy?”

For a moment all she can focus on is the strand of hair that’s fallen from your up-do, the way it’s framing your face, and the sudden urge she has to tuck it behind your ear. Get a grip.

Clearing her throat to regain some semblance of control over her drifting mind, she raises a brow and relaxes back in her chair. “That depends on what’s in the bag.”

And there’s that grin again, effortless and charming, as you pull a brown takeout bag out from behind your back. “Penelope and I went to that little deli on 8th,” you explain as the bag gets placed on her desk and a wrapped sandwich is put in front of her.

Emily lets out a breath of air, not quite a laugh but almost. “You do know I am capable of feeding myself, right?”

You simply tsk and roll your eyes. “And yet, you always seem to forget to actually feed yourself. Everyone has to eat, including you, Emily.”

Emily wants to protest, to tell you that you're doing too much, that most assistants don’t watch their boss’s eating and coffee habits as closely as you do, but the words die on her tongue when she hears the way your voice softens around her name.

“I didn’t know what you’d like, so I got a Prosciutto and Mozzarella. It’s got tomato, arugula, and basil too.”

You say it so simply, as if you hadn’t just gone out for lunch and brought her something to eat because you knew she’d forget otherwise. “Thought you might like it.”

Of course, I’ll like it because you picked it out and you're perfect—you’re an angel, Emily thinks to herself. But she can’t say any of that, so she instead opts for a small yet grateful smile. “It sounds delicious. Thank you,” she murmurs earnestly while unwrapping the sandwich. It does, in fact, look delicious too.

She must have said something right because you practically beam while settling into one of the chairs opposite her desk, already pulling your own sandwich out. “Okay, great!”

She watches as you take your first bite, your shoulders swaying side to side in delight, or what you have named your ‘happy food dance’.

Moments like this were becoming more and more frequent. You showing up, pulling her away from whatever was causing her a migraine that day, and simply existing with her.

She was still trying to get used to this— someone showing up and taking care of her in these small ways. Not only insisting that she take a break and eat, but bringing her a meal like it was nothing, like taking care of her was easy. She could get used to this.

And that was the problem.

She was getting used to it.

Getting used to you showing up with coffee or tea. Getting used to you reminding her to eat. Getting used to you popping in throughout the day and hearing your voice outside her office door. Getting used to looking for you when you weren’t around.

She hadn’t realised the office had fallen quiet. You sit opposite her, occupied with your own lunch, occasionally looking around or humming that song that’s been stuck in your head for the past few days, and it’s silent. Not that awkward kind of silence, but a comfortable one.