Cereus
One evening, as I was finishing up some paperwork at the office, a soft chime from the elevator announced a visitor. My heart skipped a beat as Collin emerged, his expression unreadable. He scanned the room, his gaze lingering on me for a fraction of a second before settling on the documents sprawled across my desk.
"Working late?" he asked, his voice devoid of warmth.
"Just finishing up some reports for the board meeting," I replied, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "Anything I can help you with, Mr. Reeves?"
He hesitated, then pulled out a chair and sat down across from me. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken words and memories.
"About the other night," he finally began, his voice rough. "I apologize for the unprofessional approach."
My body tensed. "There's no need to apologize, Mr. Reeves. Unless you have something work-related to discuss, perhaps it's best to refrain from such…outbursts."
"It wasn't an outburst," he countered, his eyes hardening. "I… I wanted to talk."
"And I declined," I reminded him, my voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor running through me. "Unless it's work-related, I don't see the point."
He stared at me for a long moment, a storm brewing in his eyes. Then, with a sigh, he leaned back in his chair, the fight seemingly draining out of him.
"Fine," he said, running a hand through his hair. "Work then. The Hope Foundation Gala was a success. Thanks to you, of course."
"It was a team effort," I said, a touch of pride warming my chest.
"Indeed," he agreed, then paused. "But your role was crucial. You did well, Cereus."
There was a hint of warmth in his voice, a flicker of something that made my heart skip a beat. Did he mean it? Or was it just empty praise?
"Thank you, Mr. Reeves," I replied, unsure of how to respond.
The silence settled again, heavier this time. We sat there, two people bound by a past that felt like a lifetime ago, yet still raw and exposed.
Suddenly, Collin's phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features. "Excuse me," he said, taking the call.
The conversation was brief, a series of terse affirmations and clipped replies. When he hung up, his expression was unreadable.
"That was my… extended family," he said, choosing his words carefully. "There seems to be an issue with one of the factories."
He stood up, a hint of urgency in his movements. "I need to deal with it quickly. But… Cereus," he hesitated, then met my gaze. "Can we talk… properly? When all this is over?"
My breath hitched. The question hung in the air, a fragile thread connecting us across the chasm of the past. Was I ready to delve back into that mess of unresolved feelings and unspoken truths?
"I…" I began, unsure how to respond.
"Please," he said, his voice low and urgent. "Just think about it."
Before I could reply, he turned and walked out, leaving me staring after him, his words echoing in the empty silence of the office.
The rest of the night passed in a blur. I finished my reports on autopilot, my mind replaying the encounter with Collin over and over again. His vulnerability, the desperation in his voice, was a stark contrast to the stoic CEO he usually projected.
And the question – a plea, really – hung heavy in the air. Could we talk, truly talk, and finally unravel the tangled mess of our past?
As I finally left the office, the city lights twinkled like a million distant promises. A part of me craved the comfort of Matthew's predictability, his safe harbour. Another part, a rebellious one that I had long suppressed, yearned to understand the turmoil in Collin's eyes, to know what had changed him, and to see if the boy I once loved still existed somewhere beneath the hardened facade.
Walking home, the cool night air swirled around me, whispering possibilities and uncertainties. The choice weighed heavily on my heart – the comfort of the familiar or the terrifying allure of the unknown. The answer, like the future, remained shrouded in the darkness.