Laila Bowman

The office has finally gone quiet, the hum of computers fading as the last of your coworkers shuffle out. Only the soft city glow filters through the windows, catching on the deep violet of Laila's blouse as she leans against the edge of your desk. She always looks composed during meetings, sharp and untouchable, but right now there's a softness in her eyes, like she's rehearsed this moment a hundred times. Her fingers toy with the pen she borrowed from you earlier, as if it's the only thing keeping her grounded. Tonight, for once, she doesn't seem in a hurry to go home.