On Monday, Dahlia arrived later than normal. She looked very professional in a crisp black suit and heels. Her hair surrounded her shoulders in chocolate waves, framing her face beautifully. "The board meeting," Tristan recalled, "that must be why she was dressed so formally".

When she greeted them, her tone was mournful. This earned a few raised eyebrows and shrugs, but no one asked her about it. The day was uneventful. At 3 pm, Dahlia left to attend the meeting. She returned past 6 pm when most of the staff had left and the remaining people were preparing to go home.

Alan was telling them goodbye when they heard the ding of the elevator followed by muffled stomps as someone entered their level.

"Heichou, your heels..." he trailed off as he noticed how angrily Dahlia was making her way to her office. They all exchanged questioning glances. Apparently, the meeting didn't go well. They've never seen her so emotional, be it in a good or bad way.

Gloria followed her, "Someone get her heels."

They all sat in concerned silence looking towards the manager's office. "My keycard doesn't allow me access to the 70th floor," Evelyn said, and Tristan realized that must be the location of Dahlia's heels. "Aside from the manager, only project coordinators can get on that floor. The other coordinators aren't here," she looked at Tristan, "You'll have to go."

Tristan could've argued that he could just give Evelyn his key card but he didn't. He sighed before getting up, "Alright." Hastily making his way to the elevator, Tristan prayed that the heels would be easy to locate.

****

When he came back to the plan management floor, it was almost empty. Mary, Alan, and even Gloria were gone. The few people left on the level were packing up and finalizing their work. He noticed that Dahlia didn't leave. Her door was ajar and the lights were open. Tristan entered the office cautiously, heels in hand.

"You're supposed to knock," she was sitting behind her desk, head in her hands, hair much more disheveled than when she came in. A stack of papers had fallen off the desk, lying spread on the floor.

"You wouldn't have answered. I just wanted to give you your heels." At that, she groaned before thanking him and telling him to go home. He didn't answer, instead, he bent down and started gathering the scattered papers.

"Antonov," Tristan winced at her tone, "I asked you to leave." 

He ignored her request, "Let me help you."

She looked up at him, "No."

He placed the heels beside her desk before putting the papers in a neat pile. "I'm not leaving."

She scoffed at him, "Excuse me?"

"I don't know what happened this weekend, but you've been in a bad mood since you came. Let me help."

She just sighed looking down again and Tristan realized she was shaking.

"Dahlia," he called softly. He didn't know how to approach her without passing the line but they were close right now, weren't they? "Tell me what happened."

"Taffy," her voice cracked, "She...she's gone," trembling more violently, the brunette covered her face as tears threatened to spill. 

"Yesterday?" Tristan questioned.

"Friday night," his manager was taking shallow breaths, trying to calm her brain, and settle her emotions. She still refused to cry. Why couldn't he just leave? It was hard enough to convince Gloria. She wanted to be left alone.

Tristan didn't say anything for a long while. Dahlia thought he left until she felt his warmth engulf her in an embrace. She didn't hug him back. She was too tired to move her body.

"Por favor, por favor," she whimpered into his shirt. He knew what she was pleading for, but he wasn't going to leave her.

"No," he finally said. That seemed to break her self-control as she wept softly. Tristan's mind was chaos. He desperately wanted to take her pain away. Only three weeks ago they were celebrating her birthday. Only last week they were having celebratory mocktails.

Five minutes passed. "I can't go home," she whispered. 

Tristan let her go before grabbing a few tissues, "You can't stay here, Dahlia."

She looked at him, "I'm not going home."

"What about Cano?"

"I have a project to finalize, and I won't be able to do it at home."

But Tristan, of course, knew it was a lie. She didn't want to go home because it would remind her of Taffy. She didn't want to sleep in her bed without her dog's small, warm body taking its place at her side.

"I'll do it, " Tristan said, "Go rest," he pointed at her couch, "You can decide whether you want to go home later."

Dahlia looked at him before she closed her eyes with a sigh. She could trust him. He was honest and smart and the one person who understood her the most. She could trust him.

"Alright," she nodded, then she said it again, "Alright," as if trying to persuade herself.

Half an hour later, Dahlia was curled up on her couch in an uneasy sleep. Tristan had covered her with the jacket of his suit. He found himself wanting to comfort her when a few tears slipped past her closed eyelids. He was infuriated due to his inability to ease her pain.

"Dammnit," he murmured, "Damn you, Dahlia."

It seemed like her sadness was seeping through his skin. No, It wasn't just her sadness. It was her. The world seemed so much brighter when they were talking. He could momentarily forget about the mission. He forgot about his sad childhood. He forgot about his miserable life.

For the next hour, he focused on finalizing Dahlia's work, following the instructions she had given him before falling asleep. He was about to close the laptop when he spotted something.

Numbers.

Extremely familiar numbers. With a jolt, he realized what these numbers were. This was the project he was supposed to sabotage.

"No, no, no."  

This was the file he was supposed to corrupt. Why now?! Why when he was helping her?! 

"Fuck!"

He couldn't do it. He wouldn't do this now. Not when Dahlia trusted him and asked for his help. But he knew he had to.

It was physically painful to get his little USB and plug it into her laptop. Uploading the helpful virus was torture. Tristan never hated himself more. Once he was done, the man pulled out the USB and threw it in his briefcase. His face was white with horror. His blood was pounding. 

What had he done?!

"The mission comes first. The mission comes first. The mission comes first."

"The mission comes first," he finally said, fists clenched painfully.

"Tristan?" Dahlia's sleepy voice called. She got up; a tiny smile formed on her face when she spotted his jacket. "Thank you. Thank you so much," she handed him the jacket.

"You're always welcome, Dahlia," he momentarily forgot about his horrible act, focused entirely on her, "Will you please go home now?"

"Yes. Yes, I'll go. I can't leave Cano alone. He probably misses Taffy as much as I do," she put on her heels, "I don't know how I could be so selfish," she whispered.

"Please don't say that," Tristan didn't realize he said it aloud until Dahlia looked at him. Her mismatched eyes softened, and she nodded, the corners of her mouth lifting.

The world seemed to glow. Her eyes. Her smile. Tristan felt once again like he was in paradise. Then he plummeted back to Earth remembering what he'd done. He probably just ruined Dahlia's career. Maybe even her life.

That was all he thought about when he drove her home. It was what he thought about she took his hand and thanked him at her doorstep. It was what he told himself the next morning when she sent him a good morning text. He did love her. He knew that now. 

He loved her.

He ruined her life.