Chapter 10: I didnt chase her

~Chard’s POV~

I could still feel how angry she was from two nights ago ,it was intense like she had hurt me and the pain was still there.

Every night i ve been awake, thinking about that little sad noise she made when i finally kissed her back . It was a mix of not liking me and really wanting me

She thought she was getting the upper hand by throwing away my rose.

I didn’t chase her.

Not down the hallway. Not into the stairwell. Not even with a text telling her to come back and finish what we started.

I just stood there in the middle of my office, lips still buzzing from her mouth, shirt wrinkled where her fingers had grabbed like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to pull me closer or push me through a window.

The door she’d slammed still echoed in my ears, a sharp little pmark on the mess we’d made. I let the silence settle.

Let the ache in my jaw from where her teeth had caught me remind me she’d fought back and that she’d still kissed like she was drowning and I was the only air.

Then I sat down.

I opened my laptop as if nothing had happened.

Answered three emails I didn’t care about.I watched the clock tick past midnight.

Only when the building was dead quiet did I finally move.

I walked to the break room, made her coffee the exact way she takes it black, two sugars, a splash of oat milk because she thinks no one notices she switched from dairy last month.

I carried the mug back to her desk, set it down dead center next to her mouse so she couldn’t miss it in the morning. No note. No explanation.

Just the coffee, still hot, steam curling up like a quiet dare.

The next morning I came in early. I watched from my side of the glass as she walked in hair pulled back tight again, like armor. She stopped when she saw the mug.

She stared at it for a long beat.

Then picked it up, brought it to her lips, and took a slow sip. Her eyes closed for half a second. Just long enough for me to know she recognized the taste.

She kept it. Then drank the whole thing while she powered up her computer. She didn’t throw it away. She didn't pour it out. She just drank.

That was day one.

Day two I left painkillers. The little white bottle she keeps in her drawer for the headaches she gets when she stares at screens too long.

I added two extra pills extras she always forgets to restock and placed it right on top of her keyboard. She found it mid-morning. Popped one without comment.

Rubbed her temple as the gesture hurt less because someone else had noticed.

Day three I left the rose.

Single stem. Deep red. No thorns I had clipped them myself in the penthouse kitchen at 5 a.m. because I didn’t want anything sharp near her right now.

I laid it across her desk blotter, petals barely open, still wet from the vase. No card. No name. Just the flower sitting there as it belonged.

I watched her find it.

She froze. Her fingers suspended over the stem without touching. Then her jaw tightened. She picked it up by the very tip like it might bite and walked straight to the trash can under her desk.

She dropped it in without hesitation.

The petals crumpled against the plastic liner. She sat back down, opened a spreadsheet, and started typing like the rose had never existed.

But I saw the way her hand shook for the first few keystrokes.

Saw the way she glanced at the trash can twice before forcing her eyes back to the screen.

Saw the way she drank the coffee I’d left that morning anyway—same way, same slow sip, same tiny exhale when the warmth hit.

She kept what fed her.

Threw away what felt too much like a claim.

I didn’t mind.

I’d always known she’d fight this. I knew she’d make me earn every inch. The coffee was fuel—she needed it to survive the day I’d already ruined.

The painkillers were mercy she hated owing me even that small relief. The rose? That was different.

That was me saying I see you bleeding and I like the color. Too much. Too soon. Too honest.

So she threw it away.

Fine.

I would leave another tomorrow.

And the day after. And the day after that.

Until the trash can was full of dead flowers and her desk still held my coffee every morning like a surrender she refused to name.

I leaned back in my chair, eyes on the glass wall where she sat pretending to work.

She hadn’t looked my way once today.

But every time she reached for the mug every single time her fingers brushed the spot where the rose had lain.

Then she'd freeze.

Her hand would hang in the air.

The mug wouldn't budge.And neither would she.

And that was enough.