C6 Quiet Escapes and Hidden Storms

The morning started differently. Not with alarms or meetings or emails flagged “urgent.” Just silence, soft and unbothered.

I made a cup of tea instead of coffee, something with lavender and chamomile. Lauren would’ve laughed at me if she saw it, calling it “an old lady’s drink,” but today, I didn’t care. My body was asking for peace, and for once, I was willing to listen.

I sat at the windowsill, watching life move slowly outside. People rushed by in coats, gripping phones and takeaway cups, faces drawn in the kind of determined exhaustion I had come to know all too well. But I stayed still, curled into the quiet.

I hadn’t gone to work.

I didn’t send a text. Didn’t reply to any emails. I’d left the letter on Bishop’s desk the night before. Not a request, but more of a statement—calm, honest, and kind. I didn’t expect him to understand. I just needed to say it.

Lauren came by around noon with a bag of pastries and her ever-familiar smirk.

“Still alive?” she teased, kicking off her shoes as she walked in. “You didn’t answer my texts.”

“I know,” I said, smiling faintly. “I wasn’t in the mood for screens.”

She handed me a croissant and plopped down beside me. “Did you hear from him?”

“No.”

“Are you okay with that?”

I hesitated, then nodded. “For now, yes. I think… I think I just needed a moment to reclaim something. Even if it’s small.”

We spent the day like we used to before everything got so tangled—barefoot and unbothered, watching rom-coms on the couch, arguing about which love interest had the better jawline. I laughed more than I had in weeks.

It felt like freedom.

But in the quiet moments, I still thought of him.

Of Bishop.

Of the tension that always hummed between us, alive even in silence. The way his voice changed when he was irritated. The sharpness in his eyes when he didn’t understand why I couldn’t just let things go. And the softness that peeked through when he thought I wasn’t looking—when his fingers lingered a second too long, when his eyes followed me like a silent promise he hadn’t yet learned how to keep.

I missed that man. Even if I wasn’t sure he truly saw me. Not the assistant. Not the girl from the coffee shop. But the woman who was learning to breathe again.

By the time the sun set, my phone buzzed.

Bishop: Come in tomorrow. We need to talk.

No explanation. No “hope you’re okay.” Just five words that sounded more like an order than a request.

Lauren peeked over my shoulder.

“Are you going?” she asked.

I looked at the message again.

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I guess we’ll see.”

And with that, I closed the screen, tucked myself under a blanket, and let the world outside disappear for one more night.

I barely slept that night.

Not because of nightmares or anything haunting. Just… my mind kept replaying those five words.

Come in tomorrow. We need to talk.

There were no details. No warmth. No acknowledgment of the letter I’d written. Bishop King didn’t do softness. He didn’t do requests. And as much as I hated it, a part of me wanted him to ask, not tell.

Still, morning came. And with it, the responsibility that clung to me like perfume I couldn’t scrub off.

Lauren was still asleep, curled up on the couch, one hand tucked under her cheek, the other half-hugging an empty bag of popcorn. I didn’t want to wake her.

The apartment was quiet, save for the faint buzz of the fridge and the occasional honk from a distant car. It was the kind of silence that usually comforted me, but today it felt weighted—like something was about to crack open and spill.

I took a long shower, letting the hot water sting just enough to keep me present. Then I dressed slowly, choosing something simple: a fitted navy dress, low heels, and a soft cashmere cardigan. No bold lipstick today. Just gloss. A hint of blush. Enough to look like I hadn’t been struggling to sleep for the past few nights.

At 8:46 a.m., I stepped into the building.

And everything felt different.

People whispered as I walked by. A few nodded. Some barely looked up. But there was a tension in the air—thin and electric—that hadn’t been there before. Maybe I imagined it. Maybe I was projecting. But it was there all the same.

I reached Bishop’s office, pausing before I knocked. His door was closed. Unusual. Normally it stood slightly ajar, signaling that he wasn’t to be disturbed unless summoned.

I raised my hand, knocked once, twice.

“Come in,” his voice answered, clipped and controlled.

I stepped inside.

He was at his desk, sleeves rolled up, no tie. A half-empty cup of coffee sat beside a closed laptop. He didn’t look up immediately, only gestured for me to sit.

I did.

The silence stretched for a beat too long. Then another.

Finally, he looked at me.

“I got your letter.”

I nodded slowly. “Okay.”

“Taking days off isn’t a crime, Rose. But disappearing without so much as a proper word? That’s something else entirely.”

“I didn’t disappear,” I said, more gently than defensively. “I left a letter on your desk. You read it.”

His jaw tightened. “That’s not how we do things here.”

Here.

As if this place owned me. As if I hadn’t given it everything for the past few months—every ounce of patience, pride, and quiet resilience I could muster.

“I needed a break,” I said, meeting his gaze. “That’s all. Nothing dramatic. Just space.”

He exhaled sharply, eyes narrowing like he was trying to read something between the lines.

“Are you okay?”

The question caught me off guard—not because he asked, but because of the way he asked. Not as my boss. Not as Bishop King, the CEO, the calculated man. But just… Bishop. A man trying to understand someone he wasn’t used to being vulnerable with.

I didn’t answer right away. I wasn’t sure I had the words yet.

“I think I’m trying to be,” I said softly.

And for once, he didn’t challenge me. Didn’t interrupt.

He just nodded, leaned back, and said, “Alright. Take today. Come back tomorrow. We’ll start fresh.”

I stood slowly, almost hesitant.

“Thank you,” I said.

But as I turned to leave, I couldn’t help noticing the way his eyes followed me—soft, uncertain, a little sad.

And I wondered what he wasn’t saying.

What truth sat unsaid between us, waiting to rise.