Love & All Things Broken

The elevator doors slid open with a whoosh, and I stepped out onto the twenty-second floor of Barrington-Williams Consulting International. It felt like a Monday. The hum of gossip, the clacking of keyboards, the smell of burnt espresso already told me I was behind. I knew stopping at Starbucks would make me late—but honestly, I didn't care.

I forced a smile that felt like a bandage over a bruise and headed toward my office, mentally rehearsing small talk. Anything to drown out the loop in my head: He gave my birthday gift to Macy. . . My customized, stupidly-expensive, ridiculously extravagant bag—to his eleven-year-old daughter.

"Morning, Felicity." Callie, our newly promoted project manager and analyst, handed me a stack of project briefs. "Ethan asked if you'd swing by his office when you have a sec."

Of course he did.

I thanked her and headed for my office, dropping my tote beside the desk. The Boston skyline was visible through my floor to ceiling windows, sunlight gleaming off towers and rooftops. The foot traffic below buzzed with movement, people going somewhere, doing something. I loved this city. I loved this office. Just standing inside it reminded me how hard I'd worked to get here.

I exhaled and unpacked my bag. Laptop. Files. An unnecessary quantity of baked goods from Starbucks. I laughed softly when I pulled out the full box of granola bars. What the hell was I supposed to do with all these? They weren't Reese's. I tossed everything into my desk drawer and connected my laptop to the docking station. All three monitors blinked to life.

Finally—something I could control.

A soft knock at my open door pulled me from my inbox. "Knock-knock."

Ethan Hayes leaned against the frame, sleeves rolled to his forearms—forearm porn level, and yes, he knew it. Tie loosened just enough to whisper casually polished. Most of the office called him McSteamy. They also called him my "work husband." He wore the title like a badge of honor.

I nodded toward the guest chair. "You summoned?"

"I did." He grinned, but his expression softened the longer he looked at me. "But first—happy early birthday. I know it's not for a couple days, but I'll be out of the office, and I didn't want to miss the chance."

My pulse stumbled. My birthday wasn't exactly my favorite subject this week. "Thank you. But really, you didn't need to do anything. It's just another year."

Ethan tilted his head, one brow arched. "Just another year? It's not every day you turn twenty-one for the nineteenth time."
Without waiting for permission, he placed a matte black gift bag on my desk—sleek, discreet, and suspiciously heavy.

"Ethan..."

"Just open it."

"I'm serious—you didn't have to—"

"Humor me."

I pulled out the box. Jesus—Montblanc. He got me a Montblanc? My heart did a slow, startled somersault. I lifted the lid. Holy shit. The Smart Writing Set. This thing had to be close to a grand. Inside: a set of notebooks, the stylus pen, and a leather folio that practically whispered luxury. Is he serious?

First thought - I love it - it screams "me." Second thought - I can't accept this, right?

It was beautiful. It was thoughtful. I couldn't look away as I started running my hands over the folio and lifting the pen out of the box.

"You're always scribbling on sticky notes and in the margins of printouts," Ethan said quietly. "I figured... maybe you deserved something that could actually keep up. It's supposed to be great - seamless with your phone, whatever you write down will translate into the app. You can organize everything from there."

He sounded a little nervous, but there's no way he could know that the words were hitting me harder than he probably intended. Because all at once, the contrast was sharp: this man—this coworker—noticed the details my husband didn't. He paid attention. He remembered. He saw me.

I blinked quickly again, trying to pull back the tears that I felt coming. I closed the lid before my face gave too much away. "It's... wow. It's incredible. Thank you, but it's too much Ethan."

He shrugged, but his eyes held more weight than his tone. "You're welcome and it's isn't too much. It's a big birthday and you deserve the world."

I sniffed a bit and busied myself with sorting out the tissue paper, bag, and contents.

Then he asked: "Hey - is everything okay?"

"Of course," I said—too fast. I reached for the stack of files on my desk and straightened them like they needed organizing. "In other news ... how's house-hunting?"

He accepted the redirect without a fight. "I saw a three-bedroom yesterday with ceilings so low I couldn't stand upright in the kitchen. Apparently, that's a 'historic feature.'"

We bantered a little, both of us pretending the energy between us hadn't shifted with the opening of a box.

When he went to leave, he tapped the bag lightly. "Use it in good health, Felicity Barrett."

That name scraped something raw. I gave him a grateful smile anyway. "Thanks, Ethan. Really."

The rest of the day blurred. Meetings. Audits. A crisis consult with a department head who thought yelling counted as leadership. Another who thought they could fire someone without consulting with HR first. Normally I thrived on cleaning up other people's messes. But today, my mind kept drifting to the slight indentation on my finger from where I'd twisted my wedding ring the night before, trying to ground myself.

At noon, I escaped to the lobby café. Another coffee with an extra shot. Quiet corner. Emails.

One notification popped up:
Dining reservation reminder for two: Antico Forno. 7 p.m.
Sender: Caden Barrett.
My heart stuttered.

I tapped the screen to open it, but didn't RSVP. Didn't cancel. I just... let it sit there. Like the rest of our marriage.

"Hot date?" Callie slid into the seat across from me with her quinoa bowl.

"Hmmmm," I said, voice disinterested.

She raised a brow but didn't push.

Back in my office, a Post-it note greeted me on my monitor. Ethan's handwriting—clean, confident, looping just enough to look like it was scrawled without effort:

Presentation moved to 3:30. Looking forward to seeing you work the new pen!

Just a note. Just words. But it felt warmer than anything my husband had offered in months.

I pressed it between my fingers and wondered—When did I start needing validation from someone who wasn't my husband?

By four-thirty, thunderclouds had littered the sky. I shut down my laptop and packed up slowly, dread rising inside me. The dinner reservation still blinked on my calendar like a countdown I couldn't stop.

When I stepped out of my office, Ethan was waiting by the elevators, umbrella in hand.

"Heading out? Let me walk you down. Forecast says cats and dogs."

We rode the elevator in silence. In the mirrored walls, our reflections stood side-by-side: his loose charm, my stiff shoulders. He spoke just before the doors opened.

"Felicity... if someone doesn't see how amazing you are, that's on them. Not you."

How did he know? Was it written all over my face? I swallowed hard. "Thank you," I managed. I wasn't sure which part I meant—his friendship, the pen, or the quiet knowing in his voice I couldn't bring myself to name.

He raised the umbrella over both of us and walked me to the curb. When the Uber arrived, I slipped inside and looked back once. He was still standing there, shielding me from the storm.

The city blurred behind the windshield. I pulled out my phone.

The dinner reservation reminder waited—should I go?

But the question felt bigger than that.

It wasn't about dinner. It was about whether I still believed there was something left worth salvaging.

I didn't know what to do.

I just stared at the screen, then shut it off, and looked out the window.

Still holding Ethan's pen in my hand.