The Monday had moved in its usual rhythm of meetings and emails, signatures and numbers that begged to be coaxed into promises. But under the polished surface of it all, Sophie carried a secret warmth from yesterday—the kiss, the nap, the soup, the way Margo had looked at her in the low afternoon light as if the world had finally loosened its grip.

Margo, too, seemed different. No one else noticed, but Sophie did. Her sharpness was intact, her authority unshaken, but there was a softness at the edges, a cadence gentler than usual when she called Sophie into her office. And once, when the conference call dragged past its usefulness, Margo's gaze had flicked across the room to Sophie's profile and stayed a fraction too long.

When the clock finally nudged toward seven and the building emptied into the evening, Margo appeared by Sophie's desk. No one else was around to see the small lift at the corner of her mouth, the unspoken invitation.

"Dinner?" she asked, voice pitched low.

Sophie looked up, caught the rare trace of hope in her boss's eyes, and said softly, "Yours or mine?"

Margo's breath caught. Just enough to be noticed. "Mine."

⸻

The penthouse was different tonight. Softer. Margo had dimmed the lights and drawn the curtains so the city glittered only in suggestion. A record turned quietly in the background—something slow, strings melting into each other like honey.

"Wine?" Margo asked, setting her bag aside.

"Yes," Sophie said, removing her coat and slipping off her heels, suddenly comfortable in the space that had seemed so intimidating just days ago.

They moved toward the kitchen, but instead of ordering in like before, Margo opened the refrigerator to reveal ingredients neatly arranged.

"You cook?" Sophie asked, surprised.

Margo gave a wry half-smile. "I do when the company matters."

Sophie laughed, the sound light. "Then I feel honored."

"You should," Margo replied, but there was no arrogance in her tone—just warmth.

She chopped herbs with precise movements, hands steady, posture elegant even in something as simple as slicing garlic. Sophie, perched on a stool at the counter, watched with quiet fascination.

"I thought you didn't believe in Sundays," Sophie teased.

Margo glanced at her, eyes softening. "Then I'll make Mondays behave."

The food was simple—seared salmon, roasted vegetables, a salad dressed with lemon and olive oil. But the intimacy wasn't in the dishes themselves. It was in the rhythm: the way Sophie reached to hand Margo a spoon, their fingers brushing; the way Margo leaned closer than necessary to ask her opinion on seasoning; the way laughter bubbled at small mistakes, like when Sophie stole a carrot off the tray and Margo pretended to scold her.

By the time they sat at the table by the window, candles flickering, the city was only a backdrop to the glow between them.

⸻

They ate slowly, savoring both the food and the company. The conversation drifted—childhood stories, half-forgotten anecdotes from university, confessions about small fears and quiet hopes.

At one point, Sophie admitted, "I've always dreamed of living by the water. Not in a penthouse—just a small place. A balcony, maybe. Somewhere I could hear the waves."

Margo tilted her head. "Why haven't you?"

Sophie smiled faintly. "Because dreams wait until you're ready. Or until someone reminds you not to shelve them forever."

Margo's gaze lingered, her expression unreadable but full. "Then let me remind you."

The silence that followed wasn't empty—it was filled with possibility.

⸻

After dinner, they carried their glasses of wine to the sofa. The music had shifted into something softer still, piano now instead of strings. Sophie curled up at one end, tucking her feet beneath her. Margo sat close, but not too close, her arm resting along the back of the sofa in quiet invitation.

For a while, they just sat, the kind of silence that felt like the world had finally decided not to interrupt.

Then Margo turned, her eyes catching Sophie's in the candlelight. "Yesterday," she said, voice low, "you asked me to kiss you. I don't know if you realize what that meant to me."

Sophie's breath caught. "Tell me."

"It meant," Margo continued slowly, as if choosing each word with care, "that after years of wanting and waiting, I didn't have to steal. I didn't have to take. You gave. Freely."

Sophie's chest ached with tenderness. She reached out, laying her hand gently over Margo's. "I did. And I don't regret it."

Something in Margo's expression cracked—just slightly, just enough for Sophie to glimpse the depth beneath the surface.

"Then," Margo said softly, leaning closer, "may I ask now?"

Sophie's lips parted, the warmth in her chest blooming. "Yes."

The kiss was deeper this time. Not rushed, not frantic—but lingering, savoring. Margo's hand cupped Sophie's cheek, thumb brushing her skin with reverence. Sophie's fingers tangled in Margo's hair, pulling her closer until the world dissolved into touch and breath and the music threading quietly through it all.

When they finally parted, foreheads resting together, Sophie whispered, "This doesn't feel like a game anymore."

"It never was," Margo replied, voice rough with honesty. "Not with you."

⸻

The rest of the evening unfolded in quiet intimacy. They stretched out on the sofa, Sophie's head resting against Margo's shoulder, Margo's arm wrapped protectively around her. They spoke of nothing and everything—favorite books, songs that marked certain seasons of their lives, small rituals that made ordinary days bearable.

At one point, Margo confessed, "Sometimes I think people forget I'm human. To them I'm only a title, a signature, a force in a boardroom." She paused, tightening her hold around Sophie. "But with you... I'm just me."

Sophie looked up at her, eyes soft. "Then let me be the one who reminds you. Every day, if I can."

The words landed like a vow. Margo kissed her hair, unable to speak for a long moment.

⸻

When the night deepened, Sophie stood reluctantly, slipping her shoes back on. "I should go. It's late."

Margo walked her to the door, the warmth between them still humming. Before Sophie could step into the hallway, Margo caught her hand, holding it gently but firmly.

"Stay next time," she whispered. "Not because I want to own your nights, but because I want to share them."

Sophie's heart swelled. She leaned in, kissed Margo softly one last time, and murmured, "Soon."

And when she left, she carried the certainty that the line between them had not only blurred—it had disappeared entirely.