Sweet Romance14 min read
Across the Hall: Lizzy, Late-Night Confessions, and a Classmate Turned Boss
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I never expected the past to take the elevator down to my floor.
"Keyla," Beth called when she slid onto the banquette, the party noise wrapping us like a blanket. "A toast — to the city's sharpest new money-maker and our favorite litigator!"
"To Keyla!" the room chimed.
"It feels weird to be toasted," I laughed, glass halfway to my lips. "Try to keep your wallets open for me in the future, yeah?"
"Always," Beth said. "But tonight, more importantly, you have to smile for old times."
I was grinning a real grin when the door opened.
The laughter stuttered. The room tilted in an odd, familiar way. He filled the doorway like he was a page I once loved and couldn't bear to close.
"Wow," someone whispered. "Nathan was already hot in high school, and now—"
I tasted something bitter that wasn't in the wine.
Nathan Cisneros hasn't changed—tall, impeccably tailored in a slate suit, presence that made the room colder and a few heads turn warmer. When his eyes found mine, the smile on my face thinned.
"You're here," I said before I could stop it.
He nodded, the corner of his mouth lifting the tiniest bit. "Congratulations on your recent case," he said, as if he didn't know he was stepping into my orbit again.
"You traveled back for the reunion?" Beth elbowed me. "Did you two—"
"Classmates," I said, and tried to be innocent. "Hardly familiar."
"You've always been modest," Beth teased. "Go on—talk to him."
I downed the wine because domestic cats require feeding, bills require paying, and pride—well, pride can take a back seat to rent.
Later, when I scrolled through the reunion photos, I found his wrist. A flash of metal, a luxury watch I couldn't afford even if I took a dozen full-year pro bono summers. My smile shifted from duty to calculation.
He did something with his phone and vanished from the crowd like he'd never been part of the same graduating class that wrote him notes and passed him snacks between classes. I assumed he'd gone back to his life abroad, one I'd assumed I had left behind for good. My high school memory of being second to him—second to tackles, second to grades, second to everything—had faded like a streetlight at dawn.
Then I saw his name as the return elevator's passenger the next week.
"Morning," I said, watching him press the button.
"Morning," he answered.
"Which floor?" I asked, trying to be casual.
"Sixteen," Nathan said.
My jaw unclenched. Our firm was on sixteen. My desk faced a wall of certificates and the one potted plant that never died. His presence on the same floor should have been impossible, a bad joke from an old teacher.
The elevator chimed and we stepped out at the same time. The office corridor smelled like coffee and lemon disinfectant; the kind of smell that tells you to work, not flirt.
"Congratulations," my boss said, bright as a brochure. "Nathan Cisneros? The youngest partner at Paragon Associates? Same high school as you, Keyla. Small world!"
"You're kidding," I heard myself say. "We were classmates."
"Convenient," he replied, with a smile that meant, yes, very convenient.
"Welcome," I said, and meant it professionally. I tucked my chin and held my papers like armor.
Later, when I tried to resign rather than be second-guessed into a subordinate position to someone who used to beat me in physics, Nathan had already become the rumor and the reality. He was everywhere: the lunchroom, the first-chair in meetings, the face that clients wanted. People leaned in when he spoke. He wasn't just the old class monitor who had left and returned—he was the one who rewrote the office weather.
"You can't quit now," Beth said, gripping my shoulders. "You worked so hard to get here. Nathan as your boss? Think of the client referrals!"
"Don't you mean think of the bar tab he'll sign with?" I muttered.
"Lighten up," she said. "And maybe—" she lowered her voice, "—try not to be so dramatic. You do realize you've got a reputation as the best in the firm."
"I do," I said flatly. "Which is why it's humiliating to be supervised by the boy who wrote better essays than me in tenth grade."
"You're the one who's moving on," Beth said. "You're a big lawyer. Let him be your boss. You could be his ally."
The office buzzed like neon. Nathan's introduction tour was a parade of polite nods and curt business. When he walked by my desk, there was always a word: "Could you prepare those files for me?" "Please coordinate with legal on YL's merger." He said it as if he were leaning in to help, not to command.
"YL's merger?" I asked later, when I found his face on a call sheet. "You're taking the case?"
He looked at me briefly and said, "You'll be on my team."
For a moment I pictured myself as a small boat tied to a larger yacht. It should have felt safe. Instead, the tide turned green with old grievances.
Then a cat moved into the apartment across from mine.
"You named her Lizzy?" I heard him say through the half-open door when I peered over to see a luxurious, blue-eyed ragdoll surveying our shared corridor.
"Yes." My voice was surprised at how small it sounded.
"That's the same name as you," he said, casual as a librarian announcing the overdue fee. "Lizzy likes that name."
He set the cat's carrier down with a soft clack and, for reasons I couldn't explain, my hands went straight out for the animal. I wanted to claim it like salvage: this small, noble creature who accepted my hand and then nudged his.
"Can I—?" I asked.
"Don't be ridiculous," he said, but his eyes had that peculiar tilt that means "maybe" and "yes" at the same time. "You can pet her."
Lizzy blinked at me like she had secrets, then leaned into my fingers. My heart forgot to be cynical for the space of a single purr.
"Neighbors," Nathan said, and for the first time there was warmth in the word.
We built a strange routine. Mornings started with a neutral hello and "Which floor?" at the elevator. Afternoons were for getting coffee and pretending not to notice each other's schedules. Evenings were when I crossed the corridor to trade cat treats.
"Stop feeding her those," Nathan told me once, patting Lizzy's head as I offered a can of gourmet tuna. "She'll be picky."
"She's picky because she knows what she deserves," I said, bristling, half defiant.
"Maybe," he said. "But you—you're the one who brought in a feral bundle and named her Yuanbao. Don't complain if she prefers warmer rooms."
"Yuanbao is not feral," I protested. "He is—highly discerning."
He smiled in that rare, private way, as if I'd made him a small, secret present. I'd always loved that smile because it was a smile he'd never shown me in class. It was private and rare and felt like an invitation.
We both discovered, through cat-sat and small talk, that the other wasn't what high school memories had locked them into. He was more measured, less showy, but sharp as winter glass. I was louder in my insistence, more combative on paper but soft at the edges.
"You're good at this," he said during our first out-of-town trip for the YL merger. "You handle pressure well."
"You're making it sound like I'm your apprentice," I shot back. "What, should I curtsy now?"
"If you curtsy, you'll ruin the suit," he said. "And I can't ask clients to take a young lawyer who curtsies."
He'd smirk, and the world would tilt back into balance. Working beside him, seeing him in control, I felt the odd combination of small and glowing: I could see his competence and it made me want to be better, not smaller.
"Stop overworking," he said once, in the dim of the office at midnight. "You look like you haven't slept properly in days."
"Excuse me," I said. "I won a case last week."
"Winning is not breathing," he said. "You need to sleep."
"Tell me why your watch is twice as expensive as my rent," I said lightly.
"It's not twice as expensive," he answered.
"Then give it to me?" I teased.
He looked up from the paper, eyes unfathomable. "I wouldn't be able to find it again."
There were the small kindnesses. He would intercept clients who tried to charm me with floral bouquets. He would refuse drinks at business dinners I couldn't refuse. He would help me through a stuck elevator and when the lights went out in my building, he'd be the one who climbed fifteen flights because he feared I might be in the dark. There, pressed into the sudden warmth of his arms, he murmured, "Don't be afraid."
That night the air was damp and the emergency lights were red smears. He held me in a way that made all the old rivalries unimportant. He used my childhood nickname—once, twice—and when he called me "Keyla," it felt fragile and very private.
"You're quieter than I thought," I said when we finally made it back to the corridor.
"I remembered you used to pretend you couldn't see in the dark," he said. "You made me carry jars of water across the science lab when you said you couldn't find the tap."
"You remembered that?" I said. "You remembered at all?"
"Of course," he said. "Why do you think I left?"
We stood in the hush. "Because of me?" I asked.
"Because of you," he answered. "And because of the things you said you'd do if you had the chance. I waited to hear them again."
The confession landed like a pebble dropped into a very still pool. Ripples spread through my chest. "You waited for who?" I whispered.
"For you," he said plainly. "For the girl who faked night-blindness to get me to carry water."
"You're teasing," I laughed, but it clung to my throat.
"Not teasing," Nathan said. "I was stupid. I wanted to test whether you'd notice me. I wanted to earn the right to be noticed."
"And instead you became the youngest partner in the firm," I said. "That's the trade-off."
"Maybe," he replied, "but the thing I came back for is not the office. It's the cats, apparently."
He smiled then, and it was simple. It wasn't the hardened expression he wore in courtrooms. It wasn't the friend's grin meant to charm. It was a private, small curve that seemed to bloom at the sight of me and the cats.
I started to find excuses to be neighborly. I would knock on the opposite door asking if Lizzy was fed or if Nathan wanted to borrow a charger. He would come over with cat toys that came in boxes I couldn't afford. We traded small confidences like old coins.
"There's someone in your life?" I asked, one evening when his phone lit up with Kiara's name.
He glanced down reflexively. "A colleague," he said.
"Do they have a name?" I pressed.
"Yes," he said slowly. "Her name is Kiara England."
"Is she—" I started.
"She's a friend," he said. "But there's someone else."
My heart stumbled. "Someone else?" I echoed.
He met my eyes, and then his gaze dropped. "There's someone I always thought I'd wait for."
"You," I said without thinking.
He looked surprised. "Yes," he said. "I suppose—there's a small cruelty in waiting and never telling you."
"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked, because I needed the question answered before my imagination did worse things.
"I thought I would have to fight to be the right man," he said. "I thought life was a series of trials I had to pass."
His voice was gentle, honest in a way I hadn't been ready for. The weight of years—both ours and his—pressed between us.
"Why didn't you come back sooner?" I asked, because I had a whole ledger of grievances: lost competitions, first ranks he won, trophies that had his name, years that felt like a slow subtraction of me.
"I kept waiting for a sign," he said. "For you to choose me by your own voice."
"That's cruel," I said, but the anger was softer than I expected. Maybe it was the memory of my own stubbornness. "You could have asked for help. You could have said, 'Keyla, I like you.'"
"I didn't want to ruin what you might have had," he admitted. "I didn't want to interrupt your progress."
"Progress…" I laughed, half bitter, half real. "Is that what you call being the person who stands alone while the other person builds?"
"Sometimes," he said. "Sometimes progress looks like a parade and sometimes it's just a quiet man making sure no one steals your sandwich."
"I don't have a sandwich," I said.
"Not every metaphor needs a literal sandwich," he chuckled.
The days blurred into routines of cat food, briefings, and the small mercies of office life. I began to understand why Nathan had become who he was: he observed, waited, leveraged, and protected. Those were qualities of his profession and his character.
"Do you remember the physics exam?" he asked one afternoon, while Lizzy pawed at the curtain tassel.
"I remember losing to you by half a point," I said.
"I remember watching you rewrite answers at the top of the test," he said. "You were never second because you couldn't; you were second because you were generous."
"Generous?" I echoed. "I called you out."
"You gave me the space to win," he said. "And I resented you for it. I was childish."
"So you're sorry," I said.
"I'm sorry," he said briskly. "Also, I'm sorry for stealing the class monitor crown and hoarding all the extra pens."
"That was a dark day for us all," I said, laughing.
Work heated up. The YL merger was a beast with tendrils that reached into late-night negotiations and coffee stains. Nathan was steady; I was a tiger in paperwork. At a dinner after a long meeting, a client insisted I join him for a celebratory drink.
"Keyla, dinner with me?" Mason Greco asked, floral bouquet in hand, the sort of attention a high-paying client could tap like a faucet.
"I'm honored, but I..." I hesitated, thinking of Yuanbao meowing at home, thinking of Nathan's sort of quiet protectiveness.
Nathan was there, as if he'd read the room and cleared a path. He smiled at the client, polite, then turned to me. "Keyla, are you all right?"
"Yes," I lied. "It's fine."
"Okay," he said, and then to Mason, "I think Keyla has other plans tonight."
Mason's smile thinned. "A shame," he said, retreating with the bouquet. "Another time."
Walking me to the elevator, Nathan's hand brushed mine. It was trivial, electric. "You don't need to say yes to everything," he murmured. "You don't belong to anyone who doesn't make you comfortable."
"I don't belong to anyone," I replied. "Except possibly Yuanbao."
"You also belong to your own standards," he said. "Protect them."
His words made a rumpled kindling glow inside me. I couldn't disentangle the gratitude from something warmer.
One night the office elevator malfunctioned, trapping a few of us. People joked and texted. The emergency lights hummed. I felt the fizz of panic and then Nathan's hand steadying me.
"Don't squeeze," he said, trying to be playful. "We might set a record for most people who can fit into one elevator."
"Not helping," I said. He looked at me, serious now. "Here. Close your eyes."
"That's against the rules," I protested.
"Do it," he said.
I closed my eyes. He guided my hand into his chest.
"Do you have a name for this?" he asked softly.
"For the beating?"
"For the thing that feels like it's trying to climb up your throat," he said.
"Anxiety?" I offered.
"Or perhaps," he said, very low, "something like hope."
My eyes opened. The elevator dinged and then the doors opened. We stepped out into a hallway that smelled faintly of lemon and worn wood. Outside, people were talking, laughing, and life resumed. But for the first time in years, something between us shifted—it wasn't rivalry, and it wasn't purely neighborly. It was the thin, stirring possibility of something softer.
A few nights later, when the office had emptied and the moon leaned long through the blinds, he knocked on my door.
"Yes?" I called, hand on the knob.
He stepped in, carrying two mugs of tea and Lizzy in her bed like a small, furry ambassador.
"You looked like you needed caffeine and a cat," he said, as if I didn't already.
"I looked like I needed both," I said.
He sat on the sofa opposite me and there was a silence that didn't demand explanation.
"Keyla," he began.
"Yes?"
"I like you," he said.
There are confessions like cannon shots, and then there are confessions like paper boats set down on a pond—small at first, then catching wind. His voice was simple; his eyes were true. The room stilled so that even Lizzy's purr sounded like ocean foam.
"Why now?" I asked. "Why after all this time?"
"Because I realized waiting wasn't an action," he said. "I had to come back and be the kind of man who could stand beside you and not in front. I wanted to be sure I could be trusted."
"How do I know you're not just being romantic because the cats got along?" I teased, reaching for the safe pattern.
"We started with cats," he admitted. "It seemed reasonable."
The truth was complicated, scalloped with old resentments and new tenderness. I had been second for so long that the idea of being someone's choice felt radical.
"I don't know what I am," I said. "I know what I feel, but I also know how easy it is to be hurt by choices taken for you."
"I don't want to be a choice you have to resent," Nathan said. "I want to be someone who makes your days lighter."
"And if I decide to leave the firm? To take a job somewhere else?"
"Then I'll tell you I wished you wouldn't," he said. "But I'll also tell you I understand."
That night we didn't solve the past. We only agreed to sit in the room and talk about small things and cats and ridiculous legal metaphors. It was a fragile beginning.
Weeks passed. The merger closed. Lizzy and Yuanbao learned to play without a referee. Nathan and I practiced being neighbors whose hands sometimes brushed over shared curtain tassels. I practiced accepting kindnesses that didn't come with strings. He practiced asking for what he wanted.
"I want something," he said on a rain-soaked evening, the city glittering like spilled coins outside our windows.
"What?" I asked.
"Just a date," he said. "A real one. No merger talk. No client handshakes. No elevator rescues unless strictly necessary."
"A date," I repeated.
He smiled, earnest and slightly nervous. "Would you go with me?"
I hesitated only because there is honor in being cautious about your own beating heart. Then I nodded.
"Yes," I said. "I'll go."
On the night of the date, he arrived with a small bag containing two scarves and a package of catnip. "For the cats," he said. "And these aren't for bribery."
"They smell expensive," I said, trying to be witty.
"It's the thought that counts," he said. "And the timing."
We walked under an umbrella with two cats tucked safely behind and spoke about everything and nothing. He told me about the years he worked abroad and how lonely bright success can be. I told him about winning cases and losing sleep. We laughed about high school injustices and shared secrets about the things we'd both done oddly to get one another's attention.
When he said, finally, "I've liked you since the science lab," I let the sentence be the answer.
The world didn't erupt. No one threw confetti. But on the walk home, Nathan took my hand in a way that felt like a promise and not a claim.
"Keyla," he said, "if you ever need me to be more obvious—"
"I will tell you," I said.
"And if you ever need me to be less obvious—"
"I will tell you," I said.
It was a pact made without dramatics, because our history had taught us both the value of simple clarity.
Later that night, when I tucked Yuanbao into his bed and stroked Lizzy's head, I thought about the many tiny things that had nudged us into this new shape: shared elevators, stuck moments, two cats that refused to be neutral. I thought about how someone who had once been my rival had become my neighbor, my colleague, and perhaps something even closer.
"Will you wait?" he had asked the night the lights went out.
"I didn't need waiting," I said. "I needed you to try."
"And I will," Nathan said.
Outside, the building hummed with a steady, normal life. Inside, the tiny kingdom of two cats and two people was settling into itself. Lizzy dozed with one paw over Yuanbao. Nathan's voice had gone soft and sure beside me.
"Keyla," he murmured, "I always thought I'd ask you to be my small, private reason."
"That's a tall order," I said.
"Only because it's for us," he said.
I smiled and touched my forehead to his. It was the simplest of contacts, and it felt oddly final and also just the start. I thought of all the mornings and nights ahead where we would be neighbors, colleagues, perhaps lovers; where cat food bowls would clink and case files would pile and we'd banter about physics exams and serious legal briefs.
"I'll be your small, private reason," I said. "But only if you promise to be less dramatic about the watch."
He laughed, small and delighted. "Deal."
At the doorway, Lizzy yawned, a small royal gesture, and Yuanbao's whiskers twitched like a punctuation mark. Outside, the stairs held our footsteps.
"Do you remember the night-blindness?" he asked as we stepped into the corridor, voices low to keep the cats dreaming.
"I do," I said.
"Good," he said. "Because sometimes I still want to carry your water."
"Then take the bottle," I said, for old times' sake. "But only if you bring the tea."
He kissed my forehead as he passed, a brief vow, warm and practical.
I held the small, absurd peace that had surfaced between us in my palm. It was plain as cat fur and twice as stubborn. It was something we could build on—quietly, carefully, like two people who had once been rivals and now were learning to be companions.
"Keyla," he whispered, as if it were the only name he ever wanted to say, "I came back because I wanted to be near you."
"I know," I said. "I noticed."
Outside our door, the hall light flicked once, steady and sure, and in the apartment, the cats settled deeper into sleep. The world outside continued, loud and indifferent, but in our small patch of it, the sound of two careful heartbeats kept time.
The End
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